


The Piece I've Always Been Missing

by mylingen



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Use, Gaying Through them all, Lots of crying and anger, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 106,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylingen/pseuds/mylingen
Summary: Tristan stumbles through the new Commonwealth of Massachusetts while trying to not go too insane.





	1. A New Way

_  
Entry 1:_

_I’ve been told there’s a place called Diamond City further south. Hard to imagine a city anywhere in this wasteland but I’ll check it out. _

_//_

_Entry 2: _

_Piper (journalist, whatever that means now) offered to join up after i gave her an interview. It was weird. I told her what I’ve been through, but it sounded like someone else’s words.  
Kind of her to offer but this isn’t her business. Good to know not everyone’s hostile. _

_Got a lead on some sort of PI called Valentine. Hopefully has some answers. /Someone/ must have seen /something/. _

_//_

_Entry 3:_

_Can’t say that i /want/ company but having Valentine around is a good enough distraction. He obviously knows a lot more about this world than I do. And he’s less grating than Codsworth. Also brings less memories. Valentine’s friendly and I can’t…  
It’s easier to stay focused with someone around, robot or no. _

_And maybe this Kellogg will have some answers. _

_//_

_Entry 4:_

_Valentine told me this crazy story about someone in some place called Goodneighbor who can look into people’s brains. Sounded like science fiction but, honestly… Few things feel real right now. Might as well just go with it. _

_Piper is coming with me this time. I figured she knows a lot about ‘the Commonwealth’. Might try and ask her a few things on our hike to Goodneighbor. _

_//_

_Entry 5: _

_Nick told me about what’s happened out here, what’s made people distrust robots - 'synths' - from ‘the institute’. He compared our situations. I guess I can see where he’s coming from with that. _

_He’s talking as if I need to settle down here, slow down, accept and take things in. I guess he can’t understand how absurd that sounds to me. I need to keep moving. We’re getting closer. I think Shaun’s safe, physically, but he’s in a place that seems to think it’s OK to send out killer robots as an experiment. Honestly, they seem to be just another Vault-Tec from where I’m standing. _

_//_

_Entry 6:_

_The whirring of the roto blades from the ‘Brotherhood of Steel’ vertibirds is a constant sound since their big blimp appeared. No one seems to know what they’re about. _

_They seem military to me, in more ways than one, from the one person I talked to in the group. I know enough about military to… not feel great about it, on several levels. _

_//_

_Entry 7:_

_Well. I sure as shit didn’t think that ‘eaten by very, very large crabs’ was something likely to go on my tombstone. Heh. _

_Also didn’t think I’d ever find myself having to wear PA again. Or, I hoped. But here I am._

_//_

_Entry 8:_

_Nick… I guess you could say he opened up a little to me today, talking about who he is and such. Apparently his personality is based (I don’t know if that’s the correct way to put it) on a cop back from my time, and /he’s/ the one who was called Nick Valentine originally, and now Nick the synth has his memories and stuff like that. _

_I’d be hard pressed to say anything but that Nick, despite not actually having one, has a good heart, regardless of circumstance and whatever. I think our talk helped me remember to try and keep mine through all this. There’s so much… I don’t know. Violence. I don’t want to be a changed man when I finally find Shaun. _

_//_

_Entry 9:_

_After getting the chip from the courser, I gave it to a group that calls itself ‘the railroad’, some sort of anachronistic slave-freedom-fighters. Though, they fight for freedom for synths from the institute. I wouldn’t tell them, but it all sounds a little naïve to me. I /am/ grateful they could help me. They’ve got impressive tech for what they are, and what they have to work with. I try my best not to think about how… crazy this whole teleportation business seems. I just need it to work. If I die trying, I at least tried. I just need to find Shaun. _

_I’m sitting up against the steeple of Trinity Church. What’s left of it. Looking out over the old airport. The weird metal blimp of the Brotherhood hovers over it. Funny how military has survived. Then again. This world is nothing if not violent. _

_//_

_Entry 10:_

_After some consideration, I’ve decided to ask the Brotherhood of Steel for help building the teleportation device. Of the scattered groups I’ve run into here, they do seem the most organized. I just think I’ve got the best chance of fitting in and getting help there. Whatever my views on and memories of the military are, at least I know it, and how it works. I hope. _

_Having heard the way they talk in the Brotherhood beforehand, however, I knew I couldn’t bring Nick. It is what it is. I also didn’t feel completely right holding him up for this long on my personal, weird errands, no matter how much he says it’s fine. _

_//_

__

Tristan didn’t really know what he had expected setting out on a lonely trek, but he felt silly now. Of course everything would catch up with him, now that there was no one around he had to keep up appearances for. Of course cold sweat would creep up like bad memories. Of course panic would breathe down his neck. He tried to remember old mantras from the army. Nothing made sense. Everything was wrong. 

The buildings in front of him were fuzzy through the mist of the morning. The combination of knowing how they were _supposed_ to look and how they _actually_ looked as he came closer made him dizzy. His legs almost gave way before he managed to make it up to a crumbly, dusty wall to lean against. 

_God damnit, get your breath back._ He pushed his forehead into the plaster, looking for a connection to his body. He tried the pushing with his nails, and the sensation made him involuntarily grind his teeth. But it worked. At least a little. 

He stood up straight again, making it into the sorry excuse for a street that led to the fortifications surrounding the old police station. No new ferals it seemed, only the rotting corpses of the previous wave. The smell had already become familiar. The sweet fumes of rotting meat seemed to be one of the several unpleasant odors that were all but constant in this new world. 

Inside the station the smell was another one that was familiar by now – mildew and dust. And sweat. He had himself gotten to the point where he could smell his own sweat, and then gotten used to that as well and now supposed he positively reeked. But then, so must everyone else. 

A stocky man with a buzzcut twitched and jumped to his feet as Tristan carefully opened the door to the station and walked in. Seeing that he was not a feral, the man in the orange jump suit lowered his gun, but only a little. 

‘Oh. You’re back, huh,’ he said. ‘Don’t go snatching our supplies if you’re not here to finally help, okay?’ he continued, an unimpressed frown seemingly stuck on his face. 

‘Noted,’ Tristan said with a smile he tried to make as courteous as possible, ‘Where’s your ah… commanding officer?’

‘The _paladin_ is in the rooms over there,’ the grumpy man said, nodding over to the left of the reception desk in the foyer. 

‘Oh, for crying out loud, just be happy someone’s here to help,’ said a woman who now peeked in from another room. 

‘We absolutely do not know that he’s here to help,’ protested the man. The woman ignored it and walked over to Tristan with an effective spring in her step. Her light blue eyes glittered, alert and bright in a way that made Tristan self-conscious. The quick glimpse he’d caught of himself what… three days ago? had not exactly been a pleasant sight. Suddenly, he was more surprised by this person’s approach to him than the man’s. 

‘I’m Haylen, a Scribe in the Brotherhood. And that’s Rhys,’ she said, reaching out a hand to Tristan. He took it, prepared to apologize for the black grime staining it, but she didn’t even look at it, just vigorously shook it. ‘Paladin Danse has been hoping you’d come back, you’re the only one who’s come around to offer any sort of help.’ She gestured in the same direction that Rhys had.

‘Tristan,’ Tristan said, his face smiling, while he hoped it had some kind of autopilot that made it not look like a weird grimace. Judging by Haylen’s smile back, it might have worked. He made off towards where she had been pointing, leaving the two of them in some sort of hushed argument.

Tristan wondered why on earth this Danse did not get out of his PA in a place as crammed and, honestly, threatening to fall apart, as this. _How did he even get through the doorway to this room?_ Clearing his throat to let the paladin know he was there, and then also knocking on the door post, Tristan made it into the cluttered room. The paladin looked up from some document he was, judging from the frown, not really getting along with, and his face immediately brightened, before he seemed to catch himself and settled on a sterner expression.

‘Civilian,’ he said, turning around toward Tristan with the loud hissing and grinding of the PA stopping him from continuing immediately. ‘Welcome back.’

‘I… It’s Tristan. Tristan Lyndon,’ he said, reaching out his hand, knowing it was possible, though not entirely comfortable, to shake hands with someone in PA. Danse took it and gave it one firm shake. _Ow_. ‘I had some things I needed to sort but, if you still need help around here, consider me willing and able,’ Tristan continued.

Paladin Danse nodded. ‘Very much so, civilian. Ah, Lyndon.’

Holy shit was it weird to hear someone say his last name. Especially someone in PA. Especially someone who said it like… _that_. Tristan was unsure what _that_ was exactly, but there was just something. Something that sent a shudder through his entire body. Memories? Sure, but damn if it wasn’t difficult to judge the nature of those memories. It was as if a gun shot of flashbacks hit him square in the forehead. Memories connected to barracks, being out in the field, during exercises, panicked screams after gun shots, murmurs in showers…

‘We’ve got a mission not far from here, I would like you to accompany me.’ Danse’s voice caused Tristan to snap out of the aimless staring he didn’t realize he was up to until he stopped. A warmth spread on his face that he hoped was not visible in the glum haze of this room. Danse watched him with his bright brown eyes, but there was no knowing smirk or hint of mischief on his face. Tristan nodded, trying to shake the feeling of having been found out. 

‘I ah… brought some power armor too, it’s outside,’ Tristan said, at which the paladin smiled a little. 

‘Very good,’ Danse said, deftly threw the massive helmet of the power armor up in the air before putting it on and continued through the tinny filter of the PA, ‘Let’s go show the Institute some manners.’

_The confidence of a man who’s still got all his convictions intact_, Tristan thought, trying to feel that it was a positive thing that he had found someone like this around, and not only feel the void inside himself at it. _This is what I need right now. It must be. _

//

Voss grinned that obnoxiously cocky smile that Tristan had come to understand exactly the meaning of by now. This really was _not_ the time and still, he could feel his pants tightening as a response, apparently not able to help it. There was a pause in the, up until now virtually unyielding, gunfire and Voss used it, not to peek out from cover and try and _actually shoot something_, but to dash from his position over to Tristan. Tristan hissed in response to the shorter red-headed man pressing his body up against his own, Voss making sure he was also behind cover and safe from the gunfire, which now picked up again. 

‘The _fuck_ are you _doing?!_’ Tristan spitted out through clenched teeth right into Voss’ grin. 

‘God, you’re hot when you’re scared,’ Voss whispered into Tristan’s ear, reaching down to pull at his belt.

Shocked, Tristan reached down to stop him, catching both of Voss’ hands in one of his own.

‘Are you _crazy?!_’ Tristan yelled over the gunfire, which now seemed to come from three guns, as opposed to the previous one. 

‘As if you don’t know the answer to that, babe,’ Voss continued, leaning in close to Tristan’s face. 

But it was cut off, the last word broke in two, Voss’ eyes bulging, his mouth gasping for air, blood sputtering out, into Tristan’s eyes, blurring everything. His hands digging into the green, blood-soaked fabric of Tristan’s fatigues, teeth grinding each other into dust, a howl approaching from years away.

‘No, no, no, no,’ Tristan started, trying to catch his comrade, his fingers burrowing into a mangled back, grated to the bone by automatic gunfire. Nails digging through flayed flesh; breathing turning to gurgles; someone’s screaming. 

‘-don! Tristan!’ 

Darkness. The smell of mildew and sweat. Dust. A pale face. Brown eyes. Yellow light. Black hair. _Nora is dead. Shaun is dead. No… gone._

_I’m alive._

‘Lyndon, are you awake?’ Danse’s voice was tense.

He nodded in response, trying to get control back over his breathing, sitting up and just now noticing that the paladin had been holding his shoulders quite hard, a grip he now let go quickly. 

‘You were shouting,’ the paladin continued. ‘I thought maybe you had… been hurt. That someone had breached the perimeter.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Tristan said, trying to muster up a smile, now that the panic of the dream was slowly loosening its fingers around him, ‘Nightmare.’ 

He grabbed the can of purified water next to the bed. It tasted like metal. Another wave of panic hit him, but of a different kind, and he quickly made sure the covers were, and had been, over his lower body. He didn’t know about the “had been” part, he realized. A sigh escaped him. _Well. Here’s hoping_. Danse didn’t exactly seem like the shoulder-punching bro-chuckling sort of military Tristan had often run into in his previous life, something he was very grateful for in every other instance. Right now though, that could’ve helped. However, the paladin didn’t give any indication of being uncomfortable, so Tristan just simply decided that Danse had not noticed anything… compromising. 

‘It’s a harsh world out there. It’s only human to be affected by it,’ Danse said and, even though he said it in that same way he seemed to say most things – as if he was quoting from a rulebook, or a catechism – it was a welcome sentiment. 

‘Thanks,’ Tristan said quietly. He smiled a quick smile, which was reciprocated. 

With a nod, Danse left the office in which Tristan had rolled out his bedroll. Tristan leaned back against the wall, listening to the insects crawling around in it and ignoring the chills it sent across his body. 

What the hell was that about? Not for one second after getting out of the vault, after Nora’s murder, after… everything, had Voss been on his mind. Hell, not for a long time before all this either. And nothing had been on his mind, Voss or otherwise, that had been close to affecting him like uh… this. He felt the tension in his groin die down, but it was slow and borderline painful. _First hard-on in two hundred years, huh?_ He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. This whole Brotherhood of Steel business must be dragging up a lot more memories than he realized. His and Voss’ thing had been brief, and stupid and… 

He sighed again, burying his face in his hands. He really wished this part of him had stayed on ice just a little bit longer.


	2. Busted

_ Entry 11:_

_The… rhetoric in the Brotherhood reminds me so much of things i’d like to forget about the military. I feel as if I had forgotten about this part. But now I remember. Vividly. And my feelings towards this sort of talk. _

_I need their help but… the way they see the other inhabitants of the commonwealth, I just… I don’t know. I will shut up about it, obviously. But I just needed to put it down somewhere that I don’t agree. I find their way of talking uncomfortable at best and, frankly, dangerous at worst. I´ve seen it before. And what it can lead to. And wow, do I wish I could forget about that. _

_But anyway. We /are/ close. When I have Shaun back in my arms, I won’t throw his life away by staying in this kind of organization. For now, I’ll hold out. There are some good people around here, too. I need to remember that. Danse might have bought into the rhetoric, but he’s a good person and, who knows, maybe he’ll come around once all this is over. I really appreciate Danse’s sense of duty and will to protect and serve. It reminds me of what i liked about the military. But people like elder maxson… No. _

_//_

_Entry 12: _

_I hope I won’t have to regret this later._

_I’ve run with the BoS a while now and just… I’ve just got such a bad feeling about the Elder and the vision he has for the commonwealth. It’s terrifying. I hope, and i do think, that there’s more to it than how much he reminds me of lieutenant Wicker. I mean, that in itself is a pretty bad thing. _

_I’m coming Shaun. I just need to know that I am not making things worse and even more dangerous for you when I get you back out here. _

_//_

_Entry 13:_

_I went back to the Railroad. It turned into more of a confession from me than I would’ve liked, but… the short of it is that I’ve agreed to help them. To keep working with the Brotherhood and let the Railroad know what’s going on, under cover. _

_I feel now that this was the right thing to do. That heart Valentine was talking about… I think I was losing track of it somewhere in speeches about honor and duty to the commonwealth. I can’t forget my duty to me and Shaun. Now… let’s just hope this crazy thing Proctor Ingram has built doesn’t simply vaporize me. _

_I’m going tomorrow. Next time I write, Shaun will be with me._

_//_

_day 3_

_the man here instead of my son is not… he's not a good man. _

_i don’t know what to do._

_//_

_day 5_

_diamond sCity can sukc t._

_//_

_day 6_

_me ta womna called cait. shes cool._

_//_

_day 7_

_theres no tresaure of jamaice plains. lsot of ferals tho._

_//_

_Entry 18:_

_University point_

_I went… I guess to see if it was true, what people were saying. About the massacre. About the institute. It is. It was. _

_And, on top of that, on top of trying to cope with Shaun thinking this is something that needed to be done, I found a holotape. With Kellogg’s voice on it. I wasn’t prepared. Honestly, I don’t know if I had reacted any differently had I been prepared. _

_Cait took care of me as best she could. She’s quickly turning into a friend. I think she hoped for more and was I bent that way she’d be right up my alley. She didn’t take offense or anything just… you know. _

_Fuck, I know I need to sober up. Just… not yet. Not just yet. _

_//_

_day 9_

_at least cait makes sure I never drink alone._

_//_

_Entry 20:_

_We’ve stopped for the night, or well, to sleep at least - I think it’s closer to dawn to be honest. I always worked best during nighttime. Seems to be the same with Cait. She’s sleeping now though, judging by the snoring. _

_So. Cait told me about her addiction to Psycho. Honestly, I’m surprised she trusted me with it in the… state I’ve been in. I dunno. Maybe she told me /because/ of that. _

_It sucked, but I’ve flushed myself with addictol. I’ve done this once before, or something similar. And well, here’s another thing I wish I didn’t remember. There’s just… /no/ serotonin left in my brain right now. I think I’m going to need to dose myself with Med-X in the beginning just to dull this, or I won’t be able to make it through. Even though I know booze will taste like poison for days with this in my system, I can’t stop thinking about it. _

_But I really need to do this. I can’t stay hooked on that shit while we’re going to get Cait clean. She’s saved my life more times than I can count by now. And I… honestly can’t believe she’s stuck around seeing how I have behaved. Here’s hoping she doesn’t hate me sober. I know I’m not exactly keen on it right now._

//

‘Hey, so, uh… thanks. A lot.’

Tristan chuckled a little, putting the third stimpak in a row into his abdomen and carefully stood up straight, squinting into the white sunlight of the mid-day. Cait playfully boxed him in the shoulder to emphasize her gratefulness. 

‘No, ah… no problem,’ Tristan said with a grunt, feebly punching her back in a dense bicep. ‘That was… a lot of gunners. A whole lot.’

‘Yeah, bloody hell,’ Cait said, wide-eyed at the memory. She looked down at her once-gray t-shirt with a frown. ‘I think I can _squeeze_ blood out of this.’

‘Think you can- agh,’ Tristan clutched his side as a sharp pain hit him. _Insides not healed yet._ Cait reached out to support him and he took her arm while rolling his eyes, ‘I think you can squeeze blood out of that entire vault by now,’ he groaned.

Cait led them over to a collection of twig-like trees and sat them both down. Tristan grunted. He leaned back and looked at Cait, who studied him with a concerned frown. Tristan waved at her to let her know that he was fine. Fine-ish. 

‘So. How are _you_ feeling?’ he said, getting his backpack off and digging around to find something to eat. He found some old aluminum cans in which he had stuffed pieces of radroach meat he’d cooked the day before and threw one over to Cait. She crinkled her nose at it but shrugged. Then she looked at Tristan with a wide smile.

‘Amazing. Free,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I know this isn’t like… going to _fix_ the issues or the thoughts that made me start in the first place or anything, but… I do feel just that. Free. Ready to try and live a little differently. Kick people in the face with a clear head. You know, _better_.’ She laughed. 

Tristan smiled back. He believed her. 

‘So, you know…’ she started, while picking through the cold, stringy meat in the can with her fingers, ‘We’re best buddies now – don’t you even try and deny it – but you can still tell me if this is, you know, not my business at all. But I was wonderin’,’ she paused a little to make a pointed face at what she thought about the food.

‘I’ve got some mysterious “potted meat” that smells like old toes, if you’d prefer that, princess,’ Tristan said, nodding towards his backpack. Cait sucked her teeth and shook her head as a reply.

‘Fine, fine,’ she said and ate another piece. ‘But when I was all confessing my feelings and whatnot earlier you said that you weren’t into women, right?’

Tristan was not sure where this was going and, though not uncomfortable _yet_, he felt himself preparing to be. He tried to keep a natural face. Back before the bombs, same-gender relations were still something that a _lot_ of people thought it their business to oppose and complain about. He hadn’t thought about it, but he hoped that was the sort of thing that would seem incomprehensible to a world where everyone was just trying to survive to such a degree as this. 

‘You had a wife, though, yeah?’ Cait said between chewing.

_Oh. Right._ Tristan felt silly not thinking about that. He’d told Cait quite a bit about why he was out here and all that. And probably more than he remembered now. Apparently not this, it seemed. Or maybe she didn’t remember either. 

‘Ah… yeah…’ Tristan said, and laughed a little. ‘Me and Nora, we uh… We met in a queer bar, trying to wingman each other, as a… drunken game. We clicked instantly. Not romantically, just… best friends.’ Tristan smiled. A pleasant memory. Finally, a pleasant memory. Cait looked amused but was clearly not following. Tristan continued. ‘I don’t know how it is now, but our parents, both hers and mine, were very conservative. They wanted us both to get married and have kids – me to be married to a woman, and her to a man, that is – where both of us would’ve wanted it the other way around.’

‘Wait, what have your parents got to do with who you’re fuckin’?’ Cait scoffed, ‘That’s messed up.’

‘Marriage was a… A whole thing let’s just say. To say it was only to do with old religious rituals, or only to do with laws and constitutions, would all be simplifying it. To a lot of people, though, it had to do with keeping up appearances. And tradition. And just… Playing the game, trying to seem something. We had that luxury, as a culture, I suppose. As a world.’ 

Cait shook her head. ‘Yeah, you said it. Sounds like making problems. We’ve got enough of those now.’

Tristan nodded, biting his lower lip. ‘Well, anyway. Me and Nora realized, after a year of being friends, that us getting married would be a good solution to a lot of problems. I know that might sound cowardly to some people. We sure had a lot of complaints from friends thinking we, you know… _gave in_ or whatever. But, honestly. I don’t know anyone I would’ve rather raised a family with. I loved her more than anyone. I was so proud of her, of us… having Shaun, I…’ Tristan heard his voice break and fell silent. 

After a few seconds of quiet, Cait scooted over towards Tristan, who couldn’t find a reason to move. The dry, dead leaves crunched under Cait’s movements. She reached out an arm and put it tentatively around Tristan’s shoulders. The sensation made him freeze momentarily and he felt her prepare to remove the arm again, but he relaxed and sunk down against her shoulder. She squeezed him a little, putting her head on top of his. 

‘Everything’s really fucked up,’ she said softly, stroking his shoulder with her thumb. He scoffed at her words, nodding a little, still afraid he’d break apart completely if he tried to speak again. He didn’t have the strength to go through that right now. ‘But I’ve got your back, okay? We’ve gone through some real shit together now, and, I don’t know about you, but you’ve seen some of my at least top five shite sides.’

Tristan laughed breathily. ‘Same,’ he whispered, smiling. 

‘Things will only get better from here,’ she said, patting Tristan’s shoulder twice and leaning back from him again, looking into his damp eyes with a bright, awake conviction. 

Tristan believed it. For her. Things will absolutely only get better for her. And if they don’t, he’ll come after whatever is putting her down and tear its head off with his bare hands. 

_I’m not well, Cait. And I will only drag you down with me right now if you stick around._

//

The level of professionalism the barber in Diamond City had was, to Tristan, completely stunning. Then again, he must be used to it. The sight that met him in the mirror before he got started was nothing short of startling. He barely recognized himself. He didn’t even know his beard could grow that long. Or his hair. His eyes were sunken to the point of looking as if he had taken a beating. His skin seemed burnt and sickly-looking at the same time. And yet, here this fresh-faced man was, radiating sound and regular sleeping-hours, with a smile and hands seemingly eager to get into the black mess on top of Tristan’s head. When half of it was shaved off, the stuff left on top washed back to at least some degree of being able to reflect light again, and his chin completely visible again, Tristan couldn’t help but give the barber a generous tip. As an apology, if nothing else. 

//

Being back here felt as a defeat, he thought, as the shadow of the looming metal zeppelin above fell over him. This was the only way he could think of to get himself properly straight. It was the only thing that had ever worked in the past. And now… With everything that had happened… He didn’t have to stay away from the Brotherhood. He _could_ use them for his own personal needs. He didn’t have a son to have to keep the world safe for.

Swallowing hard, he shook his head at himself before boarding the waiting vertibird up to the Prydwen. _Don’t think about that now. Just… don’t. Sort yourself out, survive, get your head straight. One day at a time. You’ve done this before. One hour at a time. Whatever it takes._

As every time he’d put down his feet on the Prydwen, Tristan tried not to worry about how a freaking submarine like this stayed afloat in the apocalypse, and quickly went inside where he couldn’t look down. 

In the mess hall, in power armor as usual, seemingly always ready to head out, stood Danse. It reminded Tristan of coming back to the police station weeks back, the way the paladin reacted; as if the first impulse was too strong to hold back. A smile, teeth and all, spread across Danse’s face as he saw Tristan come marching down the hallway, and just as quickly, the paladin tried to set his face into something more neutral. Tristan nodded towards Danse with a smile that he tried to keep friendly, also having noted a much deeper impact than his smile hinted at, when seeing the paladin again. Somewhere in the back of his head, Tristan very clearly heard himself think _You’re not being honest with yourself about your reasons for being here_ but unceremoniously shoved that thought back where it came from, as it was too late to turn back now. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as the paladin turned to greet him.

‘Knight Lyndon. What a pleasant surprise,’ Danse said. Tristan thought he saw a flash of concern on the paladin’s face as he uttered the word _pleasant_.

‘Paladin,’ Tristan said, putting the PA-helmet he’d taken off before boarding the blimp on the counter, earning a sour look from the mess officer behind it. ‘I’m sorry for having been away for so long, I had some personal business to… finish up.’ He’d prepared the line all the way here, and still managed to hesitate at the end of it. Danse didn’t seem to notice, however.

‘Ready to get on with our mission, then?’ he said, picking his own helmet off the counter.

‘Yes. Yes, exactly,’ Tristan replied, wondering if he’d forgotten some bigger mission than just the “help rhys and haylen with things” he had put down at some point in his pip-boy. He remembered Maxson. Then he chose not to, right now. Odd jobs and small things to help out would have to be the focus for this covert personal self-sorting. He hoped it would be enough for Danse for now. To not make him doubt his devotion to the Brotherhood, that is. 

//

This time, Tristan felt awkward about getting out of his PA to get into the police station if Danse wouldn’t, so he kept it on, praying to whatever deity that he wouldn’t hit a beam and trip or something. He’d fallen over on his back in PA once and had felt a very strong kinship with tortoises just then. 

‘Paladin,’ Tristan could hear Rhys greeting Danse, who entered the station first. ‘…Knight,’ he then muttered upon seeing Tristan behind him, no doubt for Danse’s benefit, not for Tristan’s. 

‘I’m going to go stock up a bit on stimpaks and other supplies in the back room, do you need anything, Knight?’ Danse said, helmet still on. 

‘I’m good,’ Tristan said, after a bit of a pause, realizing his subtle shaking of his head didn’t translate well through the armor. He always felt distant from everything when he was in one of these suits. Not just physically. He had always thought that that was very much the point, considering what these things were for. He took off his helmet. Needed a break from its confines. 

He could practically _feel_ Rhys’s gaze in his neck. 

‘I can usually size people up at a glance, but you… you’re different. And it’s bugging the heck out of me,’ Rhys grumbled at a volume which made it difficult to figure if he wanted an answer or not. Tristan turned around. He quickly realized who he would have to do jobs for to most efficiently get rid of suspicion. Would’ve preferred Haylen. 

‘You’re not the military type. You’re a loner,’ Rhys continued.

Tristan twitched, knee-jerk wanting to protest, but then quickly realized how much he didn’t really want Rhys to know anything about him. 

‘If you step out of line and put any of my brothers or sisters in danger, I’ll make sure you regret it,’ he continued, glaring at Tristan. 

‘I always protect the ones I’m fighting besides, don’t worry,’ Tristan said, trying a small smile, before realizing who he was talking to. It probably had the opposite of the intended effect. Rhys snorted in response. 

‘You come out from the blue, take down a few ferals and suddenly you’re all buddy-buddy with Paladin Danse,’ Rhys continued.

Tristan managed to keep the smile off his face. _Ah, so_ that’s where the rub is. He’d be lying if he hadn’t wondered at that himself; why Danse had been so quick, and so adamant about Tristan joining up. But he had forced himself not to wonder about it too hard, because he noticed that it quickly turned into things he hoped the Paladin thought about him. Things he had no right to think. Or shouldn’t. 

‘You don’t have to like me, but I’m here to do a job. I want to help the Brotherhood, okay? Where do I start doing that?’

Rhys straightened up at Tristan’s question, crossing his arms. ‘The Commonwealth is full of trash. Mutants, ghouls, synths… it’s sickening the way things _fester_ around here,’ Rhys said, practically spitting the words out. ‘I know of several locations that could use a little cleaning, if you get my meaning.’ A grim smile played at the corner of his lips. Tristan frowned. _So that’s what makes you smile, huh. Charming._

‘Tell me the coordinates, we’ll sort it,’ Tristan said, bringing up the map on his pip-boy, not wanting to look into Rhys’ glee at talking about killing people. 

As Tristan had managed to pinpoint the location, he heard the paladin call for him from the back of the station. 

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make you see whose side I’m on in time,’ he said to Rhys, realizing it might be something Rhys would look back at in the future, thinking how right he had been about Tristan. 

To Tristan’s surprise, Danse was out of his armor when Tristan made his way to a quite far away office, following the paladin’s voice. Tristan also noted that it was very much lacking in places where supplies were stored. Something was up. He knew that even before he saw the troubled look on the paladin’s face. Without being prompted to, just because it felt weird otherwise, Tristan quickly got out of his own armor. He wore a jumpsuit and a tank underneath and kept the jumpsuit tied around his waist to cope with the heat inside the armor. This room was very cold, windows boarded up to not let the sun warm it, and goose bumps spread quickly over Tristan’s arms. He crossed them and leaned back against the empty suit of armor. 

‘What’s up?’ he said, realizing the tone might be about five levels too causal to address the paladin with. He was coming off a mix of Med-X and Jet that he’d used in a quite intense fight they’d gotten into with some raiders on a boat earlier, and his head was starting to feel a bit mushy.

Danse suddenly walked up to Tristan, standing very close, to which Tristan reacted by letting his arms fall to his sides and try and take a step back, which only forced him to press himself up against the armor behind him. Danse looked… He couldn’t tell. The paladin had pulled down his hood and his black, thick hair stood out from his head, some of it sticking to the sides of his face. His breath hotly met Tristan’s face.

‘Step away from the armor, Knight,’ he said. Danse’s orders were always loud, encouraging, warm. This was a tone Tristan had never heard before.

_Pissed,_ Tristan thought. _That look on his face is anger._

When Tristan had moved, Danse brought his hand up to one of the front plates of the armor and the compartments behind it. Tristan knew what those compartments were. They were for stimpaks, stimpaks that could be directly inserted into you with a press of a button in the gloves. Or Med-X. Or Jet. Or Psycho… _And shit, I know why he’s pissed._

With a harsh tug, Danse threw open the lid of the compartment and pulled the chems from their little tubes leading into the rest of the armor. Tristan flinched at the sound, and the sight, but mostly at the look on Danse’s face. It wasn’t just anger, not even mostly anger. He was disappointed. 

After a pause, where it seemed as if Danse tried to calm his own breathing, he looked at Tristan again. Tristan could see every muscle in the paladin’s upper body through the thermal jumpsuit. His face wasn’t stern so much as concerned now, but his body still seemed ready to punch anything that came near. Tristan swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal. 

‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’ Definitely disappointed. 

Tristan wished he could look the paladin in the eye. It would be the mature, professional thing to do. Owning it. He couldn’t. He was so ashamed his legs shook. And he felt afraid - first he thought it was because of Danse’s anger, but it wasn’t that. It was something else. 

‘I… hoped you wouldn’t, I suppose,’ Tristan said weakly. 

‘So you know it’s wrong?’ 

Tristan was surprised at how close he was to opening his mouth to deny that, forgetting that he was here to quit all this, to get back on track. It was literally the reason he had joined the Brotherhood again. He sighed and met the paladin’s eyes. 

‘I know it’s messing me up, yes. And I realize I need help to quit.’ That wasn’t a lie, at least. 

Danse nodded, once. 

‘I’ll… I’ll go and get myself sorted, and come back when I have figured it out, okay?’ Tristan said with a sigh. It had been worth a try. Maybe Valentine could chain him to a radiator for a month or something. 

‘Pardon?’ Danse said. It sounded strikingly sincere. 

‘I’ve… Betrayed the Brotherhood’s trust. I get it, I won’t… I’ll sort it…’ Tristan’s jumbled words turned into a whisper as Danse took two long strides towards him again and was suddenly almost as close as he had been before. And looked almost as angry. 

‘And you will stay. And earn it back. This is not negotiable, Knight,’ Danse said, his voice a little louder than it needed to be this close to Tristan. ‘When I said you were my responsibility, I meant it. Your failures are mine,’ he paused. Tristan _felt_ it and he didn’t like it. Danse took a step back, clearing his throat before continuing. ‘But so are your victories. Of which this one will be one of many. I do not doubt it for a second.’ He smiled, encouragingly, with as much integrity as Tristan felt he had been robbed of in the last few minutes. He wasn’t so sure this was how he wanted to go about it. He felt as if he was losing control of the situation. 

Tristan simply nodded, slamming the front of the power armor shut again, noting that Danse had at least left the stimpaks intact. _Good, he doesn’t want me dead_ that _bad_, he thought before reprimanding himself. Maybe Danse sincerely was trying to help. 

‘We will go to Diamond City, to sell off everything you’ve got stashed,’ Danse said, getting back into his armor. 

Again, Tristan noticed how he almost protested. _At least he doesn’t tell me to flush it_, he thought while also going back into the PA. _That would have been a lot of wasted caps._

//

Danse had seemed genuinely shocked at the _amount_ of chems Tristan had on him. He had mumbled something to the paladin about that “every raider and their dads have chems on them and I sell some of it…” and then had realized how that probably didn’t sound any better to Danse. The most annoying thing through all this was that Tristan also understood to what _degree_ he wanted Danse’s approval. And it was a lot more than he had thought. This was not a fun way to find out; crawling through your own weakness and ripping your skin off to show how infected your flesh is underneath. So to speak. Any admiration, any hint of appreciation Tristan had thought he’d seen in Danse must have been washed away like by an acid bath by now. Hopefully he didn’t doubt that Tristan still wholeheartedly supported the Brotherhood, at least. Even though that… wasn’t true. 

Tristan cursed under his breath as he stomped up along the stairs leading out of the old baseball stadium. He had never been in Diamond City in PA before. Judging by the looks he and Danse got, it was not appreciated. _Is there anything these people don’t despise_, Tristan dully thought as they got out onto the street again. 

A strong clap on his back almost made him lose his breath, despite the armor. 

‘Well done, Knight. I’m proud of you,’ Danse’s tinny PA-voice sounded. From what Tristan could tell, it sounded as if he was smiling. 

‘Thank you, Paladin. I’ll do my best to stay on the straight and narrow,’ he replied, his voice echoing inside the helmet. 

‘I know you will,’ Danse said. ‘So, about that,’ he continued, pointing towards the left leg of Tristan’s armor. It barely hung onto the frame after a careless encounter with a mine. 

‘Ah, yes. That.’ Tristan said, honestly almost having forgotten about it, despite the warnings on the display inside his helmet. ‘I’ve got loads of spare parts and stuff back up in Sanctuary, and I know the way there pretty well. You good for a bit of a hike?’

‘Absolutely,’ Danse replied and Tristan imagined seeing the smile he could still hear was on the Paladin’s lips. 

//

_Entry 21:_

_I hate when I get fidgety. It’s when I feel the most… dirty. Wrong. Like trash. When my hands shake because they want to go through every bin, every pocket, anything to find /something/. Shit. I saw a bottle of vodka – opened and probably full of dead flies – on a table when we entered Lexington and I swear I almost grabbed it. _

_I had to stop, and I almost didn’t get my helmet off before I puked my guts out. Danse didn’t say anything at first, then he simply told me to give him all my stimpaks except five, and all the med-x he’d let me keep, except for one. I guess I was worse gone than either of us thought. And I also guess he noticed that I leaned over one of the raider corpses a bit longer than I would’ve if I was only looking for ammo. Damnit. _

_I want to tell him he can trust me. While I can clearly see than I can’t even trust myself. I have a feeling he’ll had enough of me once we reach Sanctuary. We’ve stopped for a short rest in Concord now. I tried to point out where I found Preston and the others, and where I fought the Deathclaw, to focus on something positive for a change. He just smiled a little and moved on. I’m fucked. _

//

‘So, uhm… Welcome to Sanctuary,’ Tristan said, knowing he’d not get any real response from Danse, judging by their sullen trip here. Since that was the case, he didn’t stop, just kept on moving along the bridge towards the fractured street, capsized houses and burnt-out cars of his old neighborhood. Preston and the others squatted in some of the houses that were still intact. Tristan had told them to keep out of his old one, and not, for any reason, touch anything in it, before he had boarded up all the doors and windows and then a tall metal fence around it for good measure. To not have to look at it. 

He was surprised no one was trying to properly do anything with the place but barely keeping one of the houses together. They just sat around, staring out into nothing, and Preston nervously stalked the perimeter constantly. Tristan didn’t like being back here, but he had gotten to a point where he wouldn’t mind if someone tried to fix the place up a bit at least. 

‘Watch out! It’s the tin-man brigade! Pew pew!’ sounded from inside the first house on the other side of the bridge. Danse instinctively readied his weapon, his whole posture going from tired and sluggish to alert and effective in a split second. Tristan threw up his hands before the paladin in a panic, genuinely afraid Cait would have her head shot off. 

‘Don’t! Don’t shoot… Jesus… It’s… It’s my friend, Cait,’ Tristan sputtered, ‘Cait! You scared the paladin, well done,’ he continued, turning towards the house. Cait peered out, clicked her heels together, made an extremely stern face at the two men in armor and saluted so hard she instantly broke it off, whining how she hurt both her hand and her forehead in doing so. 

Still shaking her hand, she glanced up at paladin Danse, who took off his helmet, after Tristan had done so. 

‘Awful scaredy-cat for such a big man, holy warrior,’ she said, grinning. Danse simply scowled in return. ‘But if you’re good enough for Tristan, you’re alright,’ she continued, before grabbing the hand of Tristan’s power armor and dragging him with her towards the center of the settlement. As best he could, Tristan turned his head and attempted a shrug in the direction of the paladin, who simply stood at the end of the bridge for a while, staring with a frown. 

//

Danse had to suffer some scrutinizing looks and jabs from Cait when Tristan wouldn’t accept a beer, or a shot of whiskey, or “even some med-x just to relax the muscles” but eventually she stood up, arms akimbo. 

‘Actually you’re probably exactly what he need– Oh don’t you dare come here and complain you big trembling heap of trouble,’ she said shoving a very strong finger into Tristan’s right pectoral muscle, which caused him to sit right back down from his attempt at silencing her. He stuck his tongue out at her, momentarily forgetting that his commander was sitting right next to him. 

‘Anyway, I’m going to bed,’ she announced, turning towards the cul-de-sac in the settlement and walking off.

‘It’s, like… three in the afternoon!’ Tristan called after her.

‘And I’ve been awake since this time yesterday so fuck off!’ she yelled back, not turning around. 

Danse followed her with his gaze and Tristan noticed that the Paladin’s mouth was a little open as he did so. The Knight smiled. 

‘Yes, she’s always like that,’ he said softly. 

Danse closed his mouth so hard Tristan could hear his teeth slamming together as he sharply turned away from Cait. Tristan couldn’t help laughing at the sight but tried to make sure it was obvious that it was from happiness, not trying to mock. Color rose in the Paladin’s face, which made Tristan unsure if he had succeeded. 

‘She’s saved my life, honestly,’ Tristan continued.

‘Oh. I… I didn’t realize you were… _close._’ The emphasis was so pointed it was downright comical. Tristan also thought he heard a hint of disappointment, which he supposed had to do with the idea of Tristan being involved with… someone like Cait. 

‘No, not like that. That’s not… I mean, if she was my type I… I mean, she sort of _is_ my type in personality but… You know what, never mind,’ Tristan sighed sharply, ‘But yes, we’re friends. Very good friends. But I’m not off to join her in her bed or something like that. If you were… worrying abou– Actually, I’m just going to go fix this power armor,’ Tristan cut himself off, feeling his own face heating up when talking about this in front of the Paladin, for some reason. He’d never been even close to a prude. 

‘I’ve got the repair station over in the backyard, there,’ he continued, standing up, and pointing across the street towards the carport of his old house. ‘You’re very welcome to join me, I take it you have a lot more expertise in these suits than I do. I could probably use some help.’

‘Very well,’ Danse replied, also standing up, a strange sort of veil over his words, as if he were miles away in his thoughts. Glancing over, Tristan could see he seemed to be considering something, or a lot of things. He shrugged to himself and got into his armor to march it over to the repair station. He had put it by his old house not because he enjoyed being close to it, but because he felt guilty _not_ being close to it, and when he could hammer things, at least he had some way of channeling the waves of emotion.

Once out of the armor again, and actually looking at the state the leg was in, he sighed. This… was bad. Rummaging around in the shelves and boxes around the repair station he eventually found enough steel, aluminum and plastic to start welding and gluing together what was essentially a completely new plate. 

‘This will take a while, sorry,’ he said sheepishly to Danse, who had brought a chair over from across the street and sat and watched Tristan work. 

‘I don’t mind,’ the Paladin said, ‘It has, admittedly, been a while since I sat down.’

Tristan chuckled. ‘You said it,’ he said, putting on his welding goggles and then locating his home-built welding machine that he had hooked up to a generator. Through the dark glass of the goggles he saw Danse watching him, and because they hid his own eyes, he could study Danse without the Paladin noticing. Danse was… really watching him, actually, which in itself caused Tristan to look away, self-conscious about how he wanted to interpret it. He knew the paladin just watched him to make sure he wouldn’t drop the welding machine in a fit of drug-fatigue and burn off his own eyes or something. 

Nevertheless, he, for his own sake, squirmed halfway out of the skin-tight armor he’d gotten off the Institute courser what seemed like ages ago now and enjoyed the cooling evening air against his skin. _Whatever. Danse won’t stick around long enough for me to regret it anyway_, he thought. _Might as well enjoy the attention while I can, even_ if _it’s only the gaze of a commander worried about his own reputation. I’m nothing if not good at pretending._. He tied the courser armor around his waist and, whenever he could, made sure he tensed his muscles maybe just a little bit more than he had to, and tried to position himself in ways he knew he didn’t look awful in. It was ridiculous, he knew that, but it was the first bit of fun he had had in ages. 

Because of the silence from the Paladin’s direction, Tristan was sure that Danse had fallen asleep quite a while ago and Tristan had just kept his little flexing dance for his own benefit. But then he caught a glimpse of the paladin in the corner of his eye and he was… Definitely still looking. There was something dark over his face. It was like the look he had given Tristan when confronting him with the chems, but without the anger. This particular look proved to be the end of Tristan’s show, since the effect it had on him would have been impossible to hide for long. He cleared his throat and quickly, awkwardly, hunched down towards the leg of the armor, making sure that all of his work was now done with his back turned to Danse and very, very focused on getting pieces of metal stuck together, and trying not to think of dark eyes, or hands tensed around the arms of a chair, or a tight jaw… _Brain, stop it_. 

After a while, he could hear Danse moving in the chair. ‘You… don’t seem to need any help, Knight,’ he said with his usual clear voice. Tristan exhaled. 

‘Sorry, I got a bit carried away in it… The work, I mean.’ Tristan cleared his throat and stood up straight, putting the welding goggles on his forehead, turning to Danse with a wide smile. ‘Feels good to not be completely useless for a change.’ 

Tristan had wanted a chuckle, or a sympathetic smile, at the very least. He got a poignant sigh. Cursing under his breath at the response, he quickly turned away from the paladin again. 

‘You’re doing well, Knight,’ Danse said and Tristan heard him standing up. It caused Tristan to tense, but he kept his back to the paladin. ‘Tristan,’ Danse corrected himself.

Tristan spun around, not really knowing exactly why, and regretting it immediately as now he had to look into Danse’s big, sad eyes.

‘I don’t need your pity,’ he sneered. _Shit. No. That’s not what I wanted to say._

Danse’s eyes widened. ‘I… That’s not what I meant.’ He took a step back, as to underline what he had said. 

_Just apologize and be done with it_. ‘Are you sure about that?’ Tristan said, feeling as if his mouth had detached from his sense. 

‘Yes,’ Danse said, and his voice was notably sterner. ‘I am sure about that.’ He frowned at Tristan’s stance, which was all spiky defense – from twitching, clenched jaw to toes curled into the concrete underneath them, as if nailing themselves to the surface. 

‘Look,’ Danse continued, holding out his hands, ‘I have no idea what you’re going through. On several levels. But I mean it when I say that I’m proud of your willingness to fight it. And to fight against whatever it is that has happened to you to make you… so afraid.’

Tristan dropped the welding machine he had been clutching like a weapon and it met the concrete with a dull clang. He jumped at the sound but couldn’t stop staring at Danse.

‘I’m not… afrai…’ he swallowed and fell silent for several seconds. He heard his own breathing inside his skull. He tried to breathe through his nose. They simply stared at each other for a while.

‘I used to live here,’ Tristan finally said flatly and reached out his hand to rest on the blue, flaking wall next to him. ‘In this house. I had a son. I had a son and a family, and they’re gone now… I had a life here and it…’ he paused, feeling a ball in his throat, and in his stomach. His voice was a whisper when he continued. ‘I shouldn’t be alive... I… shouldn’t be alive…’ 

Danse just barely managed to catch Tristan as his legs gave way. For a while, he just hung lifelessly in the Paladin’s steady, warm arms, but then he curled up between his and Danse’s bodies. He wished he could cry, but he just felt hollow. He listened to Danse’s breathing, felt the paladin’s pulse against his forehead, his heartbeat against his hands.

‘This has turned out to be a rewarding experience… for both of us,’ Danse’s dark voice sounded suddenly. It was different this close to his chest. ‘Back in the Capital Wasteland… Once I was old enough to get out of the place where I grew up, I moved into a place called Rivet City and opened a junk stand.’ He paused. ‘While I was there, I met a guy named Cutler. We got along pretty well, watched each other’s backs and kept each other out of trouble.’

‘I have a hard time picturing you as anything but a solider,’ Tristan said quietly, in an attempt to show Danse that he was conscious and listening and appreciated that Danse was talking right now. He got a small squeeze as a reply, before Danse continued. 

‘I guess I was a bit late to find my calling,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘Anyway, we joined up with the Brotherhood together, me and Cutler. But about a year after we were posted to the Prydwen, Cutler vanished on a scouting op. It took almost three weeks, but we tracked his team down to a Super Mutant hive. Those… abominations had slaughtered everyone but Cutler. He… he should have been so lucky.’

Tristan felt one of Danse’s hands ball up around his tank top as he spoke. 

‘They had… infected him with their FEV. He wasn’t Cutler anymore. I had to… it was my duty to…’ his voice faltered, ‘put him down.’

The sensation of Danse’s fingers against his skin was too distracting, and his body’s reaction to it felt inappropriate, so Tristan reluctantly leaned back from Danse’s welcome embrace. Danse quickly released Tristan from the hug at his inclination. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ Tristan hurried to say, to show that he hadn’t moved away because he wanted Danse to stop talking. To further ensure that Danse didn’t take his actions the wrong way, Tristan simply leaned against the shelves next to Danse, as such remaining very close. Danse joined Tristan in the leaning but made sure their arms didn’t touch. 

‘I’ve fought alongside a lot of fine women and men throughout my time in the Brotherhood but… I’d never consider any of them to be a good friend, a friend like Cutler was… until now.’ He shot Tristan a quick glance. ‘It’s a good feeling, but it frightens me all the same. Having a bond with someone then losing them… it changes you.’

‘I care about you too much to let that happen,’ Tristan heard himself say. He meant it. But that didn’t mean he had meant to _say_ it. He held his breath. 

‘I…’ Danse coughed, but continued before Tristan could try and stop him, ‘I didn’t know you felt that strongly about our… Well, about… us.’ He stood up from leaning and looked at Tristan, a lot more bewildered than he had sounded. ‘I’m sorry if I seem… confused. You’ve certainly given me something to think about,’ he continued, before quickly turning on his heel and walking off towards where a few of the settlers sat across the road, around a small fire.  
As soon as he was certain that Danse couldn’t hear him anymore, Tristan went around the corner of his old home, kicked the wall with his bare foot and whispered ‘Shit… Shit, shit, shit,’ into the night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When no sex: double the angst.


	3. Liberty

They stepped out of the remarkably well-kept house into bright sunlight and were completely silent for a few seconds, before Tristan couldn’t keep the laughter in anymore. To his delight, he heard Danse also letting out a deep chuckle, that seemed to have been as hard to keep in as Tristan’s brighter, louder laugh. 

‘What in the _world_…’ Tristan said with a sigh, nodding towards the fussing, hulking robot that rolled up to them and announced, as every time he had passed the strange house before, that this was private property, but not doing more than just that. 

‘Did I… hear him correctly when he started talking about aliens?’ Danse said, smiling, as they started to set off towards the north. 

‘Ey-yup,’ Tristan grinned.

‘And… did I hear you _agree_ with him?’ Danse looked over at Tristan with a small smirk as he said it.

Tristan rolled his eyes and put on his PA-helmet, ostensibly to be spared Danse’s glare. ‘That there’s other life in the universe, sure, not that they’ve been here poking around and… whatever he was on about,’ he said. ‘Was like talking to a museum, even for me,’ he continued a little quieter, but it still made it through the armor’s voice filter. ‘It’s on the way to one of Rhys’ spots, anyway, so we might as well. And that Edward guy, the guard, seemed sensible. I mean… he seemed absolutely fed up with his boss, which, to me, speaks to his sanity.’

‘Agreed,’ Danse said, nodding.

//

‘Lyndon’

Tristan stopped at Danse’s voice. They’d been silent for quite a while; it was raining hard and the Geiger counter in Tristan’s pip-boy had been their soundtrack since the first drops. At times, it had come down so hard, it drowned out the sound of even that. It had let up a bit now and the uneven ticking of the counter was loud and clear again. Tristan wished he could shut it off sometimes but knew he would regret it when he inevitably would forget to turn it on again. 

‘Do you get that? On your radio?’ Danse continued, looking down onto his own radio built into the arm of the armor. 

Tristan adjusted the pip-boy to show the radio transmissions it picked up. A distress signal. 

‘Affirmative,’ he said. Something about the weather and the armor made him slip into old jargon. He felt himself frown at it. 

‘It’s… it’s from the reconnaissance team sent here before mine,’ Danse said and Tristan noticed how something was stripped away from Danse’s words, something that was back after a brief pause, ‘I would appreciate it if we could track the source of this signal down. We owe it to them. We never found out what happened to them, or their paladin.’

‘Of course,’ Tristan almost shouted over the rain that once again picked up and he actually felt relieved to be doing something worthwhile in this weather instead of mysterious missions for House Cabot that felt more and more as if it would lead to absolutely nothing. Or some sort of prank. ‘Let’s check it out.’ 

He left the tuner on the distress pulse and quickly got its direction. There was something incredibly stressful about the increasingly frequent beeping indicating they neared its source, making Tristan’s heart pound. 

They arrived at something that had once been a house, but now was more like a crater filled with half-buried people in power armor. It looked bizarre. The shallow, but large dent in the ground was half filled with rain. 

‘The hell…?’ Tristan said under his breath at the sight. 

Danse made it over to the distress pulser and shut it off. Tristan exhaled. _Finally_. But the sight was almost eerier in the relative calm sound of the raindrops in the little pool. Tristan walked over to Danse, noticing that his armor was starting to become a little hard to move in due to the water. _Still hadn’t fixed that little issue in two hundred years, apparently_. Danse sat down as well as he could in the armor next to the body of a Brotherhood knight in only the frame of power armor. Looking about him, Tristan realized that the other partly visible soldiers also only had the frames, not any armor pieces on. 

‘What happened?’ Tristan said, having heard that Danse was playing back a holotape in his suit while Tristan was looking over the other bodies. 

‘They had to blow their armor. Protection,’ Danse said flatly. 

Tristan didn’t really get the logic in that, but he could hear that Danse wasn’t really up for follow-up questions. 

‘I’ve got coordinates for where the others have ended up. Maybe some of them are still alive. Though… that is highly unlikely. Perhaps we can at least find their tags and honor their sacrifices as best we can.’

Tristan cocked an eyebrow that he knew Danse couldn’t see, what with the helmet being on and all. He suspected that Danse’s short and effective way of speaking was due to emotion, but it just sounded cold when he couldn’t see his face. 

‘Well find them, Danse,’ he said, deciding that his first idea of the paladin’s state of mind was correct. He tried to say it softly, but it was difficult through the artifice.

‘We will,’ Danse simply replied. 

//

A long, labored sigh escaped Danse but for once he didn’t seem to care about stopping his show of emotion. Tristan stretched and his neck gave a troubling _crack_ in response to the motion, to which he grunted. _Dududu_ sounded the warnings on Danse’s armor as he exited it and he absent-mindedly started changing out its depleted fusion core. Tristan started making a fire in the seemingly long-abandoned little camp they had come upon as the sun stared to set. Half a day’s journey left, and they should be at the coordinates of the missing patrol’s paladin, according to Danse. Or… whatever was left of him. 

Tristan sat down with a sigh of his own by the fire he had managed to breathe life into. His body felt weak, drained. It was as if the effect of the addictol refused to let go. In the back of his mind he knew that this was something else; it was everything catching up with him again. Everything he had to keep away with violence and sleepless nights and alcohol or anything else. And now that the latter wasn’t an option, with the current company he kept, the former turned… worse. A gunner had managed to kick Tristan’s shotgun out of his hands earlier and instead of picking it up again, he’d just run into them and pummeled their face with the metal fists of the power armor. He clenched his jaw at the memory. Concave skull. Blood. Couldn’t stop. 

He cleared his throat harshly and tried to shake the feeling of being covered in dirt off himself, as Danse joined him by the worried little campfire. The rain had let up, but an angry wind had picked up instead. 

‘Knight Lyndon,’ Danse said, without looking at Tristan but simply putting various pieces of Commonwealth meat on a stick that he picked from a compartment in his armor. ‘I would like to talk to you about… Scribe Haylen.’

For some reason, the first thought that struck Tristan was that he would have to sit through an awkward inquiry about whether she _liked_ the paladin _in that way_ or something. It was probably Danse’s tone. He sounded uncomfortable. 

‘Why, is… something wrong?’ Tristan said, trying to keep the options of the conversation open and away from his sudden sullenness. It felt inappropriate and he felt ashamed of it. 

‘No, no…’ Danse frowned before continuing, ‘I… simply wanted to talk to you about her, but I wanted to know what you thought of her first.’

_He is literally asking for my blessing, isn’t he,_ Tristan thought, now more annoyed than ashamed at how much his heart had started to pound. 

‘She seems… excellent at her job? I mean… diligent. Devoted,’ Tristan said, happy to hear himself not sound as affected as he felt. 

‘She is,’ Danse said quickly, but then he paused, placed the crooked stick with unappetizing-looking meats on it so that it could stand on its own while being cooked, and started on another one. ‘But I wasn’t looking for an evaluation of her performance as a scribe, I wanted to know what you thought of Haylen… as a person.’

Tristan couldn’t keep the dark shade off his face now, and he was happy that Danse’s gaze was very preoccupied with getting the squishy little meat pieces pierced.

‘The truth is, I’m worried about her,’ Danse continued and finally shot Tristan a glance. Tristan couldn’t help rising his eyebrows in response. That wasn’t what he had excepted the paladin to follow with. 

‘A few months before you found us,’ Danse went on, going back to his skewers, ‘one of my men was shot multiple times by Raiders. Haylen stayed by that Knight’s side for two days straight without sleep fighting to keep him alive… But he was on a slow decline. I decide that his suffering needed to end and ordered Haylen to administer an overdose of painkillers so he could die with dignity,’ he paused, his eyebrows sinking over his eyes, ‘Even though I’m certain she wanted to continue fighting for that Knight’s life, she injected him without question.’

The silence that followed was strange. Tristan didn’t know if Danse was going to continue or not. After a few seconds, it seemed as if that was not the case. 

‘Are you… asking me whether or not I approve?’ Tristan tried.

‘Of course not,’ Danse bit back, ‘I stand by every order I’ve ever given.’

Tristan threw down his eyes towards the fire again at Danse’s tone. They were silent for a while.

‘Haylen approached me while I was on watch,’ Danse said, softer, quieter, ‘She didn’t say a word, but I could tell something was wrong. After what felt like an eternity, she collapsed into my arms, crying. I… didn’t know what do to, so I just held her for a while.’

Tristan shot some air out through his nostrils without thinking. Very similar to what had happened earlier between him and Danse. _I wonder where the hell this is going._

Danse seemed to notice Tristan’s snort, but said nothing of it. ‘A few minutes later, she stopped, kissed me on the cheek and simply said “Thank you” before heading back into the police station. Right then it hit me… maybe I pushed her too hard. I ordered her to ignore her instinct. To do something her medical training told her was wrong.’ Danse was gesticulating around him as he talked now, something Tristan was far from being used to seeing him do. 

‘Haylen-’ Trisytan started, trying to get Danse’s attention lest he angrily throw the skewer he was waving about into the bushes. Danse’s arm sunk down into his cross-legged lap and he looked directly at Tristan. Tristan swallowed. ‘Haylen will be fine. She obviously worked through it. It’s… it’s _you_ I’m worried about, honestly,’ he said with a frown. Danse scowled at him.

‘I…’ Danse tried and then he sighed sharply. ‘Look, four soldiers… over half my team, are gone. Each one of them died because of decisions that I made. Rhys and Haylen follow me. You follow me. How can anyone have confidence in me anymore? Hell, how can I have confidence in myself?’ Danse hadn’t started waving about again, but the same energy seemed to shoot through him as he spoke about this. Tristan could see his hand tensing around his own knee, knuckles white and tendons hard.

‘Don’t worry about my confidence. I believe in you. Completely. I can’t speak for Haylen and Rhys, but I follow you because you’re damn good at what you do, and I’ve met few people so devoted to their charges,’ Tristan said.

‘That… Heh.’ Danse’s face and hand seemed to relax at the same time in response to Tristan’s words and a warm smile spread on his face. ‘I signed up to be your sponsor thinking I would teach you what I know, but it looks like I’m the one that needed the lesson today.’

Tristan scoffed, but then smiled back. 

‘All joking aside,’ Danse said, ‘I’m pleased that we had this discussion and with all the problems you’re facing, that you still took the time to listen.’

‘Yeah, just tell me if you ever need to be held yourself. You’ve done it for both Haylen and me now, after all,’ Tristan said, not wanting to let Danse slip back into work mode just yet. He enjoyed seeing a smile once in a while. And whatever else that always seemed to glitter in the corner of his eye the few times he let his guard down. But maybe Tristan was just imagining that. 

Both smile and anything else were quickly gone from Danse’s face at Tristan’s words, however, and a genuine surprise took its place. Tristan had never seen him so wide-eyed. 

‘I… I don’t... I don’t know. I never thought you’d… ask me something like that. It would... depend on… the circumstances, but I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens when that- _if_, if that time comes.’ Danse finally put a full stop in his sentence. 

Tristan wished he could laugh at it but knew that would probably just work to drive Danse away. He wished he hadn’t said it. He wished he could keep pretending that there was something _there_ even though he should know by now how much that was simply not the case. Instead of laughing _at_ Danse’s fumbling through an answer, Tristan held up his hands with as much of a sincere smile as he could muster.

‘Here if you need me,’ he said, and hoped he managed to get rid of anything suggestive at all in it, only friendliness remaining. 

Danse smiled stiffly in return. 

_One day. One day I will learn to keep my mouth shut._

//

‘Don’t… Don’t take another step, I’ll shoot!’

The fusion cell shook against its confines in the laser rifle the fatigued old paladin directed at Tristan and Danse.

‘Paladin Brandis?’ Tristan said, raising his hands slightly to show that he was not going to draw any of his weapons. ‘We’re with the Brotherhood.’

‘The Brotherhood?’ Brandis whispered, a glimmer of hope washing over his face, before quickly shifting back into the hard stare, ‘No, no, no… It, it can’t be. They’re… they’re too far away. They wouldn’t send anyone… Would they?’ He paused, breathing heavily, trying to steady his weapon. ‘Let’s… let’s say I believe you. How did you find me?’

‘We followed the distress beacons left by your team. Their holotapes led us here,’ Tristan said, not moving.

‘The others! What... what happened to them?’

‘They’re dead, Paladin. I recovered their tags.’ Tristan reached out the tags he was clutching in his hand, having prepared them to be handed over beforehand, on the off chance the paladin was alive.

‘You…’ Brandis let go of his cramping grip around his weapon and reverently reached out to take the dangling little mementoes. ‘You did? Thank you. This… This really means a lot to me.’ He straightened up and holstered his rifle, staring at the dangling little necklaces. ‘I... I tried to go back for them, you know. There was nothing I could do, not alone. But... I had hoped.’

Tristan could tell this was what had been on repeat inside the frayed paladin’s mind since he got here. The way he said it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. 

‘You’ve been through a lot to find me. I should… give you something,’ Brandis continued, looking about himself before simply holding out his arms towards the cluttered bunker, ‘I’ve collected a lot over the years. Technology. Odds and ends. If you see anything you want, take it… Take it.’

Tristan glanced over at Danse, who was studying the other paladin intensely. It looked as if he tried to gauge his mental stability, which wasn’t easy. _Worth a try_, Tristan thought, looking back towards Brandis.

‘The Brotherhood needs you, Paladin. It’s time you reported in,’ he said, trying to put some hooks into a voice used in the military and drag it up to the surface. He could see Danse snap and look at him in his peripheral vision. Tristan took a step closer towards Brandis, who leaned back a little.

‘I… can’t. It’s been too long. I… I wouldn’t be of any use.’

‘No one knows the Commonwealth better than you. We need your help.’ Tristan hoped the looming height of the power armor was encouraging, not simply threatening. His helmet was strapped to the side of the armor. With that on, this would be impossible. Though, judging by Brandis’ vigorous shaking head, maybe it was anyway.

‘I’ve been here too long. I’m… I’m not myself. Would they still… would they still take me?’

_Ah. Self-doubt. Not unwillingness. I can work with that_. ‘The Brotherhood will honor the memory of your team. Shouldn’t you be the one to tell their story?’ Tristan’s mouth tasted like iron.

Brandis looked down towards the ground, his next words mumbled to himself, not to Tristan. ‘Unless I go back... their sacrifices, everything we went through, it’ll be forgotten. I… I can’t let that happen,’ he looked up at Tristan, back straight, with a nod, ‘I’ll do it. For them.’

‘Good man,’ Tristan said with a smile and a soft clap on the old paladin’s back, which seemed to be thoroughly appreciated. 

‘All right… I’ll… I’ll get my things together,’ Brandis said, beginning to wander back and forth, suddenly chaotically busy with getting away from this place. 

Tristan nodded and he and Danse moved to go back out. Before they shut the door to the bunker, Brandis hurried up to Tristan again, taking his hand and shaking it. 

‘Thank you. Thank you for this,’ he said with a thick voice. Tristan nodded with a small smile. 

//

They’d just gotten a mile or so south when Tristan exited his armor in a panic. Everything itched. He couldn’t breathe. Sweat ran like rivers on his back. As he stumbled back out of the hissing, opening confinement, he could see Danse doing the same. Before the Paladin managed to locate Tristan’s face behind him, he said,

‘I’m… that was absolutely impressive, Knight. Having paladin Brandis back will be-’ 

Then he saw Tristan having fallen out of his armor, half-sitting up against his arms on the ground, eyes darting wildly about him, breathing heavily through an open mouth. Danse didn’t react immediately, he simply stared at Tristan before shuddering and running up to him, crouching down. 

Instinctively, Tristan recoiled. ‘No, no… I…’ he stammered, burrowing his fingers into the dry, hostile grass-like vegetation underneath his hands.

‘What’s wrong? What can I do to help?’ Danse said sternly.

_Slap me_, Tristan thought, shutting his eyes tight at it, knowing full well how impossible that was to ask of this man. 

‘Wah… Water…’ he whispered instead, to which Danse nodded, jogging back to his armor and returned with a cylinder of purified water. He opened it after Tristan failed with his shaking hands. Tristan drank half of the can and then poured the rest over his head. That would have to do. He couldn’t help but smile feebly at the face Danse made at his actions. They sat still and silent for a while; Tristan trying to get his panic to piss off again, to force it to roll off him like the water drops dripping from his hair, and Danse nervously watching him. 

‘Is it…’ Danse begun and just left it hanging.

‘The drugs? No.’ Tristan said flatly. 

Danse frowned. Tristan was sure he was unconvinced by that, true as it was.

‘Just… bad memories.’ Tristan sighed. He hoped that would suffice as an explanation. He really didn’t want to talk about it. A rush of frustration shot through him and he brought his dirty fingers up into his hair, pulling at it before sinking down with his forehead against his knees with a tired grunt. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a mess,’ he said against his legs, not sure the paladin could hear him. 

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ Danse said.

_A platitude I could do without._

He could hear Danse standing up. When he looked up at him, the Paladin reached out a tentative hand. Tristan could tell he would pull it away if he left it there more than a second, so he took it, and realized that help was a good idea, since his legs gave way immediately as he tried to use them. Danse quickly grabbed hold of Tristan’s upper arm as he teetered and pulled him to his feet, a motion that caused Tristan to grab hold of Danse to not fall in the other direction. Danse seemed to have underestimated his own strength, or Tristan’s weight. 

‘Shit,’ Tristan hissed as he grasped for anything his hand could catch, which was the fabric of Danse’s orange thermal suit sticking to his chest. Tristan felt his nails dig into skin underneath, to which he screwed up his eyes and let go as soon as the soles of his shoes finally promised to hold his body up again. His hand hung in the air where it had let go of Danse, but he noticed that his other one still clung to a tense arm. Danse didn’t move. Tristan tried to shove together some kind of apology inside his head but couldn’t focus on what he was supposed to be sorry for. _Sorry for wanting to touch you way more than that_. His breath hitched as the words formed. _Godamnit._

Then he noticed that he wasn’t the only one who still cramped around the other’s limbs. The pressure he felt around his upper arm was firm, bordering on harsh. It didn’t help with the whole breathing issue. He also felt Danse’s breath against his face but didn’t dare look up at him. He had no idea what he would find there. He didn’t understand what they were doing right now. Slowly, Danse’s fingers move against Tristan’s arm, rough gloves on skin; a warning or a caress, Tristan couldn’t tell. He half expected a punch in the gut judging by how rigid Danse’s body seemed in front of him. 

Then suddenly, Danse let go, causing Tristan to do the same from mere reflex at the tension breaking. The paladin cleared his throat very loudly and Tristan exhaled a shaking breath, still not capable of making himself look into the paladin’s eyes. 

‘Are you good to keep going, Knight?’ Danse mumbled, turning back towards his armor, preparing to get into it again.

‘Yep,’ Tristan whispered before Danse had finished his question. ‘Yes,’ he adjusted, louder.

_What the hell._

//

_Entry 22:_

_God… I can’t get what Initiate Clarke was doing out of my head. His doubts… I really wish I had stayed out of it. I saw Danse’s look as I hesitated, when I told Clarke I understood. Shit… I wouldn’t be surprised if he’ll go back and kill those ferals himself. Well. I won’t. I can’t. _

_This is going to be a /thing/ at some point isn’t it._

_//_

_Entry 23:_

_It’s not just Danse. I mean, if it was, I could probably chalk it up to me being paranoid around him. But I think people in the Brotherhood are starting to get a bit suspicious of me, despite my connection to the paladin. I think they think I’m resting on my laurels. _

_Time for a show of loyalty, I guess. I can push a bit more, it’ll be fine. I’m close to feeling alright again, I think. I feel ready._

_//_

‘Glad to be back in the worst place in the Commonwealth,’ Tristan said, rolling his eyes towards the sickly haze of the Glowing Sea with a crooked smile at Danse. 

‘A good place to store such a dangerous weapon,’ Danse said with a careful smile back. 

‘Good place to store such a shit ton of weapons, if I’ve understood it correctly,’ Tristan retorted. 

‘Which is a definitely dangerous amount,’ Danse grinned before turning towards the Brotherhood initiates gathered by the edge of the Sea, to go over the information they had. 

Tristan put on his helmet, looking out over the vibrating, yellowish clouds of radiation in the distance, vague shapes darting in it. Ferals, maybe. Or scorpions. Or deathclaws. _Or why not a bloody giant killer robot_, Tristan sourly thought at what he had helped the Brotherhood achieve so far. _Des better have a really good plan about how to sort this whole_ other _threat to the Commonwealth. Because the Institute wasn’t enough or anything._

Danse moved up to him again, power armor hissing through the syncopated ticking of Tristan’s Geiger counter. 

‘Let’s be off, Lyndon,’ he said cheerfully, turning on the light on his helmet. Tristan followed suit, feeling his heart sink slightly at hearing Danse’s tone. The paladin was delighted at the development. Of course he was; he seemed to be the most devoted member of the Brotherhood there was. A giant killer robot was only going to excite him. Nevermind the crippling irony of the Brotherhood making use of a _robot_ of all things. Tristan sighed quietly, careful to keep it below the level that would go through the voice filter and followed the Paladin, Geiger counter complaining loudly alongside them. 

The Sea was disorienting. If Tristan didn’t mind his surroundings, it sometimes felt as if he was moving on the spot, on some kind of hellish treadmill. The uniform landscape, at least as far as surface went, made the jagged topography feel like walking into a surreal painting. He was thankful that the sound of Danse’s power armor added some dissonance to the rhythmic steps he himself tried to keep in following the Paladin. The ticking of the Geiger counter was so constant he didn’t hear it anymore. 

Suddenly, Tristan froze in his step. The ambiance of the Sea stopped Danse from noticing the Knight stopping, he simply kept going. But at least there was no doubt what they were heading towards. 

A massive pyramid towered up in front of them and it sent chills down Tristan’s spine, despite the heat inside the armor. Had Danse not purposefully moved towards it, Tristan would’ve thought it was a hallucination brought on by the nightmare that was this whole place. He broke his petrification and hurried after Danse, deciding that he would rather be inside that thing, because then he wouldn’t have to look at it, at least. Moving toward it was terrifying, however, and Tristan had no idea how Danse managed to keep up his unhindered pace towards the thing. Tristan kept slowing down to a walk, in sheer, fearful awe every time he looked up to make sure he was still moving in the right direction. 

Danse was waiting by the door in the pyramid’s side as Tristan finally made in there. A small nod and he opened the metal door. Shut off from the howling of the outside, and the immediate silence of the Geiger counter made it very obvious how heavily Tristan was breathing. 

‘You alright, Knight?’ Danse said.

‘Yeah, yeah, just… Yeah, I’m fine, let’s get this over with,’ Tristan replied, not fine at all, but it was true that he wanted to get this done. Plus, he was tired of falling apart in front of Danse, even if it had been at least a week since his last freakout. 

Danse didn’t say anything, but simply moved further into the complex. Tristan was happy to see that the inside was more familiar than the outside. It was a storage, after all, not some weird cult building. He turned a corner and stopped, as had Danse. _Or… maybe it is?_ Tristan thought as he looked at the man greeting the two men in power armor. He had a colander-resembling dome on his stomach, was dressed in rags and Tristan recognized the getup instantly. _Great._

‘Travelers. The Children of Atom have sworn to guard this place until the time of the Great Divide. None shall enter,’ he said, and Tristan saw how Danse was about to say something and could guess at the nature of it, so he raised a careful hand to let Danse know that he could handle this, if the Paladin preferred. Danse waved in the Atom-worshippers direction and Tristan could sense the Paladin’s frustration even through such a simple gesture. Tristan took off his helmet, which felt as good as ever, although the place smelled like iron and rotting meat. 

‘We ah… we have need of what’s in here, brother…?’ Tristan tried, regretfully realizing that maybe he wasn’t that much above Danse’s frustration level after all in dealing with this person. 

‘Henri. Brother Henri, a simple servant of Atom,’ the man replied.

‘Brother Henri, I am not going to pretend that me and my friend here are Children of Atom ourselves, you would obviously not buy into that,’ Tristan said, hearing a grinding from Danse’s power armor that he was quite sure was an indication of that the Paladin had not been able to stop a gesture of annoyance at Tristan’s words. ‘Look, the bombs will get used, okay? Isn’t that what you want?’ he said, himself irritated at the paladin’s unhelpfulness. 

Brother Henri looked at Tristan for a while, scrutinizing him, or at least wanting to seem as if he did. Then he nodded reverently. ‘Very well. May Atom’s radiance warm your soul,’ he said, and Tristan realized that the look might have been Brother Henri understanding what little chance he would stand to survive against two men in power armor, Assaultron on his side or not.

‘Holy…’ Tristan whispered as they made it into the room Brother Henri saw himself as guarding. It was a hangar. And the bombs were massive. And many. ‘You could make a bloody hole to the center of the planet with this, Jesus Christ.’

Danse walked over to one of the green and red death-capsules, eyeing it, and the rest of the mind-blowing arsenal with a content smile.

‘This will establish our dominance in the Commonwealth, no doubt,’ he said, nodding towards Tristan. 

Tristan knew he had to nod back, so he did, but his smile was stiff. Danse didn’t seem to let that affect his mood. 

‘Report back to the Prydwen, Knight. Maxson will be happy to hear of this development.’

‘What?’ Tristan said, frowning.

‘If we want Liberty Prime to reach peak fighting efficiency, we can’t afford to lose this stockpile. We have found this place, and I don’t trust the Commonwealth enough to leave it now that we have. So, report back and make sure people are dispatched to secure it.’ It was an order, but Danse said it surprisingly softly. Tristan wished he hadn’t. He also wished he hadn’t felt so… upset at leaving Danse here. What he said was logical. Why did it feel so wrong to leave him? Tristan put on his helmet. Sometimes, it was good to be at a distance. 

‘Affirmative, Paladin.’ 

//

‘Proctor Quinlan completed the decryption of the data you retrieved from the Institute. A portion of his findings included a list of synths that went missing or escaped from their underground facility.’

Like so many times before, Tristan was taken aback at the pure _hate_ this man could project. But this… This was an even more intense level than usual. Tristan hadn’t thought that was possible. Maxson said his next words quieter but spat them out as if he detested having to speak them at all. 

‘Paladin Danse is a perfect match for one of the synths on that list.’

Tristan simply stared at the Elder.

‘There has to be some… kind of mistake?’ he heard himself say. Maxson didn’t look as if there was room for any mistakes in this statement. 

‘That data you brought back included a record of each subject’s DNA. We keep the same information on file for all our soldiers,’ Maxson continued. He had gone through this. Thoroughly. ‘To make matters worse, he’s gone AWOL. Disappeared without a trace.’ Fervor made its way back into the Elder’s voice, and now it seemed he didn’t care who could hear him. Tristan realized that everyone probably knew already. ‘Danse is a synth. He represents everything we hate… a monstrosity of technology.’

Tristan swallowed. _There it is. You son of a bitch._

‘I’m ordering you to hunt down Danse and execute him. There’s a promotion for you riding on the results of these orders, so don’t disappoint me,’ Maxson concluded. 

_Just the last one in a long line of orders from you that I have never wanted to follow to begin with. _

_Haylen. Haylen will know where he is. _

//

‘I’m not surprised Maxson sent you. He never liked to do the dirty work himself.’

The hollow flatness of Danse’s voice shook Tristan more than the slump of his shoulders and sunken eyes. His cap was off; black, dirty hair laid in thick waves on his head. It seemed he had tried to tear his thermal suit off at some point, but changed his mind, or had ran out of anger, or sorrow. It was zipped opened halfway down his chest and both the arms had holes torn in them. He had stood up when Tristan came down here; not in defense, but rather like a man walking up to his executioner. It stung. Badly. 

‘Believe me,’ Danse continued, ‘This is more of a shock to me than it is to you. I… didn’t know.’

Tristan realized that he hadn’t even considered that possibility. He rushed here in a wild panic, halfway convinced Danse had already put a bullet in his head at hearing he was a synth. No wonder he thought Tristan was in a mood to kill him, if the Paladin suspected Tristan thought he had been lying all this time. Tristan wanted to stop him, to help him, but didn’t know what to say. He took a step towards Danse, who immediately took the same step back.

‘If it wasn’t for Haylen, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ Danse said.

Tristan didn’t want to hear that. Wish he didn’t know that, even though that was what he had been imagining himself before seeing Danse alive. He could see Danse grinding his teeth, life seemingly coming back to him a bit, despite himself.

‘I remember… I remember being a child, I remember growing up in the ruin... Everything. I… supposed they… _programmed_ that all into my head.’ He sounded on the verge of crying. Tristan didn’t blame him. He couldn’t imagine this. 

‘I feel like I’ve been in control of my entire life, making my own decisions and determining my own fate. I… Even though the proof states I’m a synth, I don’t feel any different than I did before. I still… _feel_ like a human. But I wouldn’t know the difference, would I? How do I know this is what being a human feels like? Maybe you feel life completely differently?’ The anger built like a slow crescendo. It wasn’t the volume in his voice, but sweat forming on his forehead, his eyes boring into Tristan’s. 

This time, when Tristan walked closer, Danse didn’t move. He stood still almost like a challenge. If that was what it was, Tristan felt like he should take it. With three long strides, he was close enough to feel Danse’s body heat radiating off him. They had been this close a few times, and it had always been tense, but this was something else. This time, Tristan looked into Danse’s eyes and kept them there. He saw how close it had been that he would never have had a chance to look into them again. 

A wave of sorrow was the first to hit as Tristan’s lips harshly met Danse’s; as if the paladin wished it hadn’t come to this, after all, but he was far from resisting. He let the kiss become deeper, grabbed the front of Tristan’s sweat-soiled once-white tank-top and pulled the slightly shorter man towards himself. A whimper escaped Tristan at the sensation, but then he lost his breath as Danse harshly threw him away from himself. Tristan stumbled back, catching himself on the wall behind him, his palm grating against the concrete. 

‘Why does any of this even matter to you?’ Danse was practically shouting. ‘You’re obviously here to carry out Maxson’s orders. Does he even want me alive?’ 

Tristan breathed through an open mouth. He tasted iron. His lip had split. 

‘No,’ he grunted, standing up straight again from the shove, ‘But I’m hoping there’s a way out of that.’

‘I’m a synth. Which means I need to be destroyed.’

Tristan hadn’t expected Danse’s convictions to be intact to this degree. Or maybe they weren’t, and this was just a defense mechanism. It was difficult to tell. 

‘If you disobey orders,’ Danse continued, ‘you’re not only betraying Maxson, you’re betraying the Brotherhood of Steel and everything it stands for. Synths can’t be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions; they need to be controlled. Technology that’s run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction.’ He was short of breath but tried to calm down with a long exhale through his nose. ‘I need to be the example, not the exception.’

Tristan felt his sweat turn cold at Danse’s words. He could tell that most of it was regurgitated propaganda, fearmongering, rhetoric. But that last thing… that was a man closer to putting that bullet in his head still than Tristan had hoped. 

‘If you really feel that way, why did you run in the first place?’ Tristan said, trying to let all his confrontational fear run off him as best he could, at least in his voice.

‘I’m a soldier,’ Danse said and Tristan knew what he meant, but wish he didn’t. ‘Self-preservation kicked in… I needed to regroup and assess the situation. Once I got here and I had some time to think…’ he scoffed bitterly, holding out his arms feebly, ‘I realized I’d just made everything worse.’ He straightened up a little, but Tristan could see that one of his hands were shaking. ‘I’m ready to accept the consequences of my true identity. Maxson’s ordered you to execute me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand in your way.’

‘How… How can you say that?’ Tristan said, not able to keep his attempts at diplomacy up any longer. Danse simply looked at him, seemingly trying to steel himself against whatever it was that Tristan was feeling. 

Tristan took a few steps towards the paladin again. Danse shrunk back a little but didn’t step away. 

‘Even _if_ I agreed with Maxson’s methods, I couldn’t just… I could never…’ Tristan made it all the way up to Danse and couldn’t find anything else to do but bang his fists square in the paladin’s chest. Once. Twice. Several times. The paladin took it, before Tristan’s hands became so weak that the paladin instead caught them around the wrists and simply held Tristan suspended a few inches from himself. Tristan breathed out a few shivering breaths before twisting out of the paladin’s hesitant grip. He put a warm hand against Danse cheek, who started at it, but then let it rest there.

‘I don’t care. I don’t care what you’re made of – you’re more human than most people in the Commonwealth. You’re driven, and feeling, and empathic. You get excited and happy and… really angry at an idiot like me who’s just happy to be tagging along next to someone like you.’ Tristan, surprised at it himself, noticed that his voice became steadier as he spoke. He gradually leaned into Danse as he continued, the hand on his cheek becoming a steadier grip behind his neck. ‘I feel like a hollowed-out shell so, so very often. I feel as if I’m risking losing my humanity at every corner I turn. If I’m ever half the human you are… I’ll be set.’

‘Don’t…’ Danse’s voice was a cracked whisper into Tristan’s mouth, which was now almost touching the paladin’s lips.

‘Why not?’ Tristan whispered. ‘What the fuck have you got to lose?’ His anger seeped through. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. Underneath it all, he was furious. Not only at Danse; at everything. In hindsight, it didn’t seem strange that that was what Danse could latch onto right now. Had he been thinking clearly, Tristan might have used that tactic to cut the tension earlier. 

At Tristan’s words, Danse went for the dried blood on Tristan’s lip and he bit. Hard. 

‘Ha-!’ was all that Tristan managed to get out, before he was silenced by a violent kiss and Danse shoving him up against the closest table.

Tristan’s hands found their way inside and around Danse’s thermal suit quickly, getting it down around his waist as if they had been planning to do that for months. Tristan moaned at finally dragging his nails through the black hair on Danse’s chest. The paladin grunted against Tristan’s neck at the sensation, pushing his hips against him. Tristan smiled quickly, breathlessly. _Seems there’s a lot to work with there_, he thought as Danse’s hard-on pressed against his own. 

Tristan’s tank came off and Danse’s hands showed nothing of the fumbling, bewildered mess that had been the result of every one of Tristan’s admittedly terrible attempts at testing these waters. The Paladin’s fingers traced every muscle and scar without hesitation, before leaning back from Tristan’s mouth for a few seconds, looking him over without a hint of bashfulness. It caused a violent tug in Tristan’s groin, making his hips thrust up against Danse. In response, Danse gripped Tristan’s side and flipped him over on the cold, hard surface with a slam. 

‘Fuck yes,’ Tristan hissed as Danse pressed up against his ass, still covered by the well-worn black courser armor. With one harsh tug, said armor was coiled up around Tristan’s boots and Danse’s tongue pressed between Tristan’s cheeks. Tristan loudly sucked his breath and then quickly let it out again it a loud moan. _Guess some things people learn in the army stay the same_, he groggily thought, reaching out to grip the edge of the table, to push back towards Danse’s breath. He heard a metal lid hit the floor and spin around loudly on the floor before a finger, then quickly another one alongside it, made it inside of him, covered in grease. He breathed heavily into the metal surface underneath him, condensation sticking to his skin. 

Every impossibility behind and ahead of him seemed to float away in the distance; all that existed right now was how incredibly good this felt. 

Danse stood back up, grabbing hold of Tristan’s shoulder and pressed the tip of his cock against Tristan’s ass. He instinctively tensed up, but pressed back against Danse anyway, desperate to have him inside him. This didn’t have to hurt but, right now, he really wanted it to. Danse didn’t quite allow it to the degree Tristan’s hips tried to goad him into, but once he had slowly managed to push himself all the way in, he began thrusting his entire length, faster than would’ve been careful. Tristan felt his legs shake and couldn’t help but cry out every time Danse’s hips slammed into him. 

He heard the paladin’s breaths gradually turning into low moans alongside his own. _I’m going to come without even touching myself_, Tristan realized as Danse’s speed increased and the hand holding Tristan’s shoulder moved up to grab hold of his hair. And he did, screaming out and wondering for a second if he would start crying from the sheer intensity of it all, while simultaneously feeling Danse come inside of him in a series of cramping convulsions. 

The hand in Tristan’s hair held on for what was probably a full minute, before falling down and slowly tracing away across his back. Danse took a step away and Tristan knew what would happen before he had managed to turn around. The paladin stumblingly pulled up his suit and closed it half-way, and Tristan managed to pull his own armor up to his waist before catching Danse in his arms, painfully plummeting towards the floor and landing on the built in sub-par knee pads of his armor, with the paladin cradled in his arms. 

Danse wept silently, except for the occasional deep, shivering exhale.


	4. Metal to Mettle

‘Why has this… this _thing_ not been destroyed?’

Tristan should’ve known. Should’ve known Maxson wouldn’t trust him. By now, he was fairly certain that Maxson didn’t trust anyone. 

‘He’s still alive because you’re wrong about him,’ Tristan said, trying to remain calm, despite his pounding heart. Speaking of trust, there were few people he trusted less than the Elder.

‘_Alive_…’ the Elder spat, ‘It wasn’t born from the womb of a loving mother, it was _grown_ within the cold confines of a laboratory. Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine. The two were never meant to intertwine.’

If they had been anywhere else, had the circumstances been different, Maxson would probably have tried to make his words sound compassionate, tried to speak to some sort of biological essentialism so many people were willing to accept and override sense with. _I’ve heard this before. You weren’t talking about machines back then; you were talking about me. You are trying this with the completely wrong person._ Tristan didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare. What Maxson said stirred memories of family members telling him he was wrong, _unnatural_, while trying to sound as if they were coming from a place of compassion, as if they were sorry that their ‘truth’ was as it was.

‘By attempting to play God,’ Maxson continued, voice trembling with conviction, ‘the Institute has taken the sanctity of human life and corrupted it beyond measure.’

Danse put one foot forward, changing his stance into one of confrontation. Tristan realized it surprised him. In a good way.

‘After all I’ve done for the Brotherhood… all the blood I’ve spilled in our name, how can you say that about me?’ Danse said.

_Yes_. It was all Tristan could think.

‘You’re the physical embodiment of what we hate most. Technology that’s gone too far. Millions… Perhaps even billions, died because science outpaced man’s restraint. You’re a single bomb in an arsenal of thousands preparing to lay waste to what’s left of mankind.’ 

The disconnect from what Danse had actually done and the sermon spouting from Maxson felt like a knife in Tristan’s stomach. ‘Danse wants to _save_ mankind, not destroy it!’ Of that, Tristan had no doubts, even if his ways were misguided by the Brotherhood. 

‘A machine that’s had its mind erased, its thoughts programmed… its very soul manufactured… Those ethics it’s striving to champion aren’t even its own. They were artificially inserted in an attempt to have it blend into society.’

_And how the fuck is that different from you_, Tristan thought, on the verge of actually saying it, but Danse was quicker.

‘It’s true. I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren’t my own,’ he said in a solemn tone matching his posture badly, ‘But when I saw my sisters and brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow. When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride. And…’ he couldn’t keep emotion out of his voice now, ‘When I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth… I felt hope. Don’t you understand? I thought I was human, Arthur.’

Tristan could see a flicker of something in Maxson’s hard gaze as Danse spoke, though it was difficult to tell if that something would harden of soften the Elder. Danse took another step towards Maxson, whose jaw tensed at it.

‘From the moment I was taken in by the Brotherhood, I’ve done absolutely nothing to betray your trust and I never will,’ Danse said.

‘I don’t intend to debate this any longer,’ the Elder cut him off with. Danse sunk back a little and then turned back towards Tristan, who felt his heart sink at the look in the Paladin’s eyes. It was there again, that look that said he was ready to face an end. 

‘You convinced me that I was wrong to be ashamed of my true identity and I thank you for it. Whatever you decide, know that I’m going to my grave with no anger and no regrets,’ Danse said calmly.

Tristan wanted to shout. He had played his role too well, but then again, had he not, Maxson would’ve shot Danse as soon as he found him. Or someone else but Tristan would’ve been sent to do it. He tried to remember that he had willingly played the part of unflinchingly loyal to the Brotherhood; he tried to remember that it was part of his selfish plan to not let Danse know differently, and… Part of his equally selfish plan to get close to Danse, to make the Paladin think of him as more than a friend. And that was why Danse was so convinced that Maxson might be able to persuade Tristan to kill him. But Tristan still wanted to scream about it. _Don’t say what you mean. Say what you have to say._

‘After…’ he cleared his throat, looking at Maxson instead of Danse, or he couldn’t do this. Lying to Maxson felt a lot better. ‘After all the sacrifices I’ve made and all the battles I’ve fought for the Brotherhood, you need to listen to me. You _owe_ me that much.’

Maxson cocked an eyebrow at, Tristan suspected, the Knight’s nerve, but then he inclined his head in a tiny nod, indicating he would let Tristan speak.

‘Whether he’s human or not, Danse saved the lives of countless Brotherhood soldiers. Now it’s time you saved his,’ he said, hoping honor would be the one thing Maxson would be weak to.

He didn’t reply instantly, just looked at Tristan for a long time, then over to Danse.

‘You were pursued and slain by this Brotherhood Knight and your remains were incinerated. From this day forward, you are forbidden to set foot on the Prydwen, or speak to anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel,’ the Elder said flatly.

Tristan could hear Danse exhaling.

‘Thank you for believing in me, Arthur.’

_Don’t push it, Danse_, Tristan thought, ready to draw his gun if the words would prove to be the last straw on the Elder’s forgiveness-back. Maxon's face darkened, which quickly wiped the small smile off Danse’s face.

‘The _only_ reason you’re still alive… is because of him.’ Maxson growled, nodding at Tristan, before turning and marching off. 

They watched him go. 

Tristan didn’t know what to follow all this tension up with. This was too many times in a few hours to be this close to losing a friend. Suddenly, he felt a warm, coarse, gloved hand in his own, bringing it up to be held between himself and Danse. The Paladin looked tired. Very tired. But he smiled, nevertheless.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. He leaned down and softly kissed Tristan on the lips and he, surprised, was a bit delayed in reciprocating it. ‘You need to go back to the Prydwen. Keep the act up, the paperwork intact. Make everyone believe I am dead,’ Danse continued. He spoke quickly, seemingly trying to sort things out in his head as he did so. ‘And… I think I need some time alone after that to… figure things out.’

Tristan nodded and the smile the kiss had brought vanished. Danse was right but he would’ve been glad if he never had to go back to the Brotherhood again. It reminded him of the act he was still keeping up towards Danse. And breaking that act right now was very much out of the question. The Paladin was putting on a brave face, but it was still palpable, the fact that his whole identity had been stripped from him. It wasn’t exactly something you quickly recovered from. 

‘You’re… You’re gonna have to tell me that you’re going to be okay here, before I go,’ Tristan said, tightening his grip around Danse’s hand.

Danse frowned. ‘I will… do my best.’

Tristan was happy for the honesty. To him, it meant that Danse was going to be as okay as he could. He didn’t pretend that things were fine. That would’ve been more dangerous. He put his other hand against Danse’s cheek, gave him another quick kiss - which Danse refused to let be as swift as Tristan intended - and walked off into the foggy dusk of the Commonwealth.

//

_Entry 24:_

_I’ll admit it. I’m ashamed. Ashamed I bought into my own idea that strictness would do my any good. I can’t believe I reached this point, honestly. _

_But if that lead to someone as Danse still being alive, it was at least not all for nothing. He won’t ever be safe. But at least he’s free. Maybe one day he’ll see the Brotherhood for what it is. For now, I’m just going to be happy about that he’s still around. And I’ll give him the time he asked for.  
Think it’s time I go visit another synth friend of mine._

_Funny how things go._

_//_

_Entry 25:_

_Well damn. We managed to get Nick’s vendetta sorted. He seems at peace with it now, and what – who - he is. I can’t imagine. Or well, I do relate to feeling lost. Heh. _

_I can’t tell him, but… I really need to be around someone that isn’t sinking into existential dread at every turn right now. It makes me think way too much. I might’ve thought I was ready for that, but… I'm not. By a long shot. _

_All it’s made me realize is that the institute… Shaun… they won’t just leave me alone forever. I… damnit, I really need to get my shit straight around all that. I need to decide what I think. What I /really/ think about it all. And I’m just realizing that I’m still not able to do that. I panic every time I try. _

_I’m going to go make sure Danse is doing okay. But… I also need to tell him about… Well, about that I don’t believe in the Brotherhood. I need him to know me and see where that leads. _

_And, side note, I overheard something last time I was in Goodneighbor – about a mercenary looking for work. Maybe that is someone I can bring along without stumbling into someone’s identity crisis at least._

//

‘Like this, I guess we won’t be attacked by any of your friends?’ Danse muttered, vaguely motioning towards his own body, not in power armor, but in leathers and armor Tristan had brought him, thinking maybe power armor might be a… bunch of bad memories for Danse if they were to head out again. He had been right.

Tristan chuckled. ‘You never know. Maybe Cait’s vendetta this time is leather straps,’ he said cheerfully, snapping one of said straps going over Danse’s bulky shoulder. 

Danse snorted a little. 

The sun was setting over the ruins of Sanctuary Hills. They said a short hello to Carla, who was heading into the settlement with her pack brahmin at a slower pace than the two men, and nodded a similar hello to some of Preston’s people who were sitting in the remnants of a set of deck chairs in the slight warmth of the evening sun. 

Tristan felt uneasy heading towards the corner of the metal fence he’d put up around his old house, but not for the memories it always stirred, for once. Turning the corner, he let Danse walk up next to him, then he held out his hand in front of him.

‘Well. There it is,’ he said with a frown. 

Danse didn’t say anything. He walked up to his old power armor and simply stood in front of it, looking at it for a while. Then, he reached out a hand and traced the chest piece but drew it back quickly. Then, he turned towards Tristan with a close-lipped smile.

‘Let me see you wear it,’ he said.

‘I… Excuse me?’ Tristan said, genuinely unsure if he had misheard. 

‘You heard me. Get into it,’ Danse said, and when he saw that Tristan wasn’t moving, his face broke into a bigger smile, ‘Just indulge me?’

Tristan couldn’t help his puzzled face but shrugged and moved to get into the impressive dark blue suit of armor. Danse leaned against one of the crooked wooden supports trying to hold the ruined carport up, and crossed his arms, watching Tristan. 

Tristan got into the armor. He’d only been in it when he walked it here from the Prydwen. He had been promoted to Paladin. It was sickening, the twisted irony of Maxson giving him Danse’s old armor, while talking as if he was dead. But the armor smelled like Danse. He did like that. 

‘So, move around a bit,’ Danse said and Tristan looked down at him through the slight yellowish haze of the helmet’s window. 

‘If you ask me to dance, I’m getting out,’ Tristan said, sighing.

‘Nice,’ Danse said, and it took Tristan a while to realize his unintended pun.

‘Not doing that either. Mostly because I could never mimic your majestic walk,’ he said, and started to walk around a little in the area next to the carport. After going back and forth for a bit he stopped, holding out his hands, questioningly. 

‘So that’s what I’ve looked like,’ Danse said, still smiling a little.

‘Well, as I said, you move better in these things that I’ve ever done.’

‘Hm,’ Danse hummed and Tristan could see his eyes were trailing the form of the armor. ‘I’d say you move pretty well.’

‘Can I get out now?’ Tristan said and Danse nodded.

The armor beeped as it opened and Tristan gasped, startled as he jumped back right into Danse’s chest as he got out of the suit, spinning around. Before he could do anything else, Danse’s hands grabbed a firm hold under his ass and lifted him up to sit back in the armor, and had his lips pressed against Tristan’s. He was quick to respond, parting his lips and finding Danse’s tongue with his own. Danse leaned back and Tristan saw he had a small metal rod in his hand, probably from somewhere in the heaps of scrap Tristan kept at his repair station. He couldn’t see exactly what the Paladin did, but he seemed to jam the rod into place in one of the shoulder joints of the armor.

‘To uh… not risk having us become jammed into a power armor sandwich,’ he muttered at Tristan’s inquiring look. Tristan screwed up his eyes.

‘You’ve done this before, then,’ he said with a grin.

Danse turned red instantly. ‘I… ah… that’s-’

‘Hot,’ Tristan whispered before pulling Danse’s mouth down onto his own again, realizing he was in a very… fortunate position sitting where he was, with Danse now standing with his feet in the feet of the power armor. He reached down and grabbed around one of Danse’s cheeks with one hand, pulling him towards his own hips. Danse grunted in response into Tristan’s mouth. 

‘You… You said no one goes back here, right?’ Danse whispered breathily, hesitating in his movements a little, ‘I mean… ahm… Here around your house.’

Tristan laughed a little, pulling Danse further towards himself so he could talk, and breathe, right into his ear. ‘Usually not,’ he said before gently biting down on Danse’s earlobe.

Danse’s whole body stiffened in response, pushing Tristan back into the hard pads inside the armor, which made Tristan let out a moan, to which Danse stared at him. Tristan clicked his tongue. 

‘You’re right. I should be quieter,’ he said softly, and traced Danse’s muscular forearm until he reached his hand. ‘Perhaps you’ll have to help out with that,’ he whispered in between Danse’s parted lips before bringing the paladin’s hand up to hold over his mouth. 

Tristan could see Danse hesitating a second, his eyebrows sinking over his eyes, but then it was as if he gave into something else, and harshly grabbed Tristan’s lower face, covering his mouth and close to, at any time, also be able to cover his nose. Tristan made a sound in response somewhere between surprise and excitement, while at the same time realizing that this was an agreement. An agreement put on the pile of things they would have to _talk_ about, probably right after they got this out of their system. _Better make it count_, Tristan thought.

Quickly, but with ineffective hands, he got his body armor down to his knees, his dick snapping back against his stomach as he did so with a wet sound. He then moved up to undo Danse’s belt with one hand, while at the same time reaching into the side of the power armor, into a compartment where he kept the armor oil. Was it healthy to use this as lubricant on a body? Not at all. He didn’t care right now though, because he was becoming more and more convinced, by the hard look in Danse’s eyes that this would be the last time they did something like this. The gray, viscous grease smeared over Danse’s dick, alongside Tristan’s hand stroking it rhythmically. Danse reached into the same compartment as Tristan had and jammed two fingers inside Tristan, tightening the grip around his mouth as Tristan whimpered at it, but also pushing down on the fingers. With a grunt, Danse moved his hand to cover Tristan’s nose. The lack of breath sent Tristan’s head spinning even before it had started to mess with his supply of oxygen properly. He felt his dick throb at the sensation of his skin prickling due to the lack of air. Thoughts spinning, that intoxicating knowledge of the fragility of existence, the narrowing of consciousness… Danse let go. Tristan inhaled with a loud howl, which Danse instantly, sharply, shut up with his hand again, but letting Tristan continue gaspsing through gaps between his fingers. 

The Paladin reached down to get one of Tristan’s leg out of his armor and then pushed that leg up, and himself inside Tristan. A low, long, voiced exhale sounded from Tristan as he felt Danse inside of him. He held onto Danse’s hair, his face close, Danse alternating between simply looking into Tristan’s hazy, gagged face, and leaning down to bite into the side of his neck. He increased his pace and grabbed Tristan’s dick, matching the rhythm och his hips with his hand, pushing Tristan’s legs open with his body so that they pressed into the metal edges of the open power armor. The pain of the metal, and of Danse’s teeth in his neck, made Tristan’s whole body shake. The hand that had been over his mouth now reached down to hold onto Tristan’s hips as Danse thrusted even harder. Tristan pushed his own skin further into the painful metal.

‘I’m coming,’ he hissed in Danse’s hair and the Paladin replied with a loud grunt, closed his hand around the head of Tristan’s cock, and put the other hand back to silence him, as Tristan loudly, but muffled, came. Danse followed suit and tried to silence himself by boring his teeth further into Tristan’s skin. 

Tristan felt Danse empty inside him and squeezed as hard as he could. The Paladin gave a last, hard press on the sides of Tristan’s jaw alongside a last, hard thrust inside him and then stilled himself, letting his hand fall down onto Tristan’s shoulder. 

Shiveringly coming back to his senses, it felt as if it had been so intense, the whole settlement must have heard, but Tristan also realized that that was not the case. Probably. Hopefully. Danse would probably not have allowed that to happen, even under the influence of uh… that. Still leaning against Tristan, still inside of him, Danse sighed into his hair.

‘We need to talk,’ he muttered, pulling out carefully with a grimace, standing up straight and getting his pants back on properly.  
Tristan thought he could’ve waited at least half an hour or something, _but well, here we go_. He stood up on weak legs, pulled a soiled cloth from the same compartment as the grease was in, and dried his sticky stomach off with it, throwing the cloth on the ground. It left streaks of black on his skin. He shrugged. He needed a bath a week ago. An old, too big flannel shirt hung on the side of one of Tristan’s many shelves around the repair station. He put it on and motioned for Danse to sit down in the one chair around. 

‘I’ll go get some stuff, back in a minute,’ he mumbled without looking back at Danse and moved across the street. 

He came back with some Gwinnett stouts; grilled, but cold, radroach meat; and a chair. And a nuka cola, if Danse was going to throw a fit over the beer. Tristan put everything down on the small table next to Danse with unnecessary clanging. Danse raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He also said nothing of Tristan opening one of the bottles of stout, but simply took one himself. 

Tristan scoffed a little at their view. An open suit of power armor that Danse was forbidden to wear and that they had just fucked in. If he was less tired, Tristan would’ve tried to make it a suitable analogy. But he was really, really tired. And he already knew this was going to be a sad night. In silence, he lit the little gas lamp on the table, as the sun had now firmly set. 

‘I really thought this would be easier to talk about. There’s so much I wanted to say, but I don’t know where to start,’ Danse said, sounding just as tired as Tristan felt. 

‘I don’t know if anything will help me work through this,’ the Paladin continued, ‘I’ve spent my entire life… or at least what I perceive as my life… following a plan to shape my own future.’ He paused and took a draught of the bottle. ‘But since being… banished I feel… I feel lost. Like I exist, but without purpose. It scares the hell out of me.’ He fell quiet.

‘I don’t know if it’s any help but… I think it’s impossible, that whole planning your life thing. Hell, I didn’t expect to wake up two hundred years into the future,’ Tristan said.

Danse put down his bottle on the metal table with a clang. Tristan jumped, looking at the Paladin. Anger.

‘Don’t you understand? Everything I had, _everything_ I knew is gone. In the span of a few hours, my identity was ripped from me and my whole world turned upside-down. At least what you had was something tangible… something _real_.’

Tristan swallowed. It was true. This was not the time to compare their situations at all.

‘Your wife, your son… they were living, breathing humans who loved you and cared for you. Those sons of bitches who created me couldn’t even be bothered to implant memories of having siblings or parents. I don’t even know how much of my own past is artificial and how much is real. Can you even imagine that?’ 

Tristan wondered if this somehow had been that darkness, that simmering rage he had peeked in Danse before, even though he hadn’t known about his identity then. He didn’t know if that was possible. How such a thing would work in a synthesized brain, but it just seemed like now he saw those glimpses of unbridled rage in full force. And he got it. He didn’t understand how it felt to go through what Danse was going through, but that rage… He got it. But he saw that Danse didn’t want a compromised understanding, so Tristan softly shook his head instead.

‘I started out as nothing,’ Danse continued, ‘And I’ve ended up as nothing… And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.’

‘I…’ Tristan started, knowing he had to try and choose his words carefully, ‘You’re so very far from nothing. I think you know that as well. Everything you’ve gone through, that _has_ happened, and it has shaped you as a person. The way your brain is wired isn’t going to change that fact.’

Danse sighed sharply. ‘I suppose you’re right. Maybe I’m just missing the point.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘My life’s starting over, and I need to come to terms with everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve gained. Which includes something important you’ve made me realize.’ Danse turned his chair so it better faced Tristan instead of the power armor in front of them. ‘I don’t know if it’s friendship, or an anomaly in my programming. After all, I’m not really human. But whatever it is, I can’t deny that I’ve felt closer to you than anyone else I’ve ever met.’

Tristan was surprised at the sudden softness in Danse’s voice. He guessed this was what he had planned to say, but everything had bloomed out in different emotions along the way. Tristan reached out and put his hand on top of Danse’s on the table. Danse closed his fingers around Tristan’s more slender ones. 

‘I know what you mean. I didn’t think I would be granted looking into someone’s eyes in this… this whole situation, this _world_, and see that they understand what I’m feeling. Not with… all the shit I’ve been through. I care for you deeply, more than I dare to admit, I think.’ Tristan said, feeling as if he owed Danse so much more. He owed him to be braver than this, but he didn’t know what that would mean. 

‘I’m in love with you,’ Danse suddenly said, sending a cold wave through Tristan, ‘I don’t know if that’s something I’m supposed to be able to be, but I feel it. Truly. But,’ he said, holding up a hand to stop Tristan from saying something just yet. ‘I know you have doubts, and I know that who I am in love with might not… actually be the person I’m seeing,’ he smiled, despite the flatness of his voice, ‘Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I _was_ in love with you.’

‘I was in love with you too,’ Tristan said, finally realizing why he had hesitated. 

Danse let out a short laugh. ‘There it is then, I suppose.’

Tristan gave him a questioning look.

‘If you truly supported the Brotherhood as you have said… You could not be in love with a machine,’ Danse said, again with such, to Tristan, odd conviction that it left a bad taste in Tristan’s mouth. 

‘And one day maybe you’ll see what I see, no matter how you feel today. You’re not a machine, Danse. In fact, as I’ve said, you’re more human than most people could ever hope to be.’

Tristan expected, at best, a hostile response to that, now that Danse seemed to be in a less fragile state than he had been the first time Tristan pointed out his humanity. But Danse smiled, a warm smile reaching his eyes, glittering in the orange light from the gas lamp.

‘You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that.’

Tristan couldn’t help but grab Danse’s hand as hard as he could at that. He swallowed a clump forming in his throat. Danse squeezed back, then he let go lingeringly and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep swig from his bottle. 

‘You’ve been extremely kind to me. And patient. And reflected me back when I needed it the most. Maybe it is time for me to do the same, even if I suspect you might not be as receptive to it as I am,’ Danse said and, true enough, Tristan tensed up at it. He did enough crippling self-reflection himself, thank you very much. 

‘We might be alike, but we’re mostly very different,’ Danse said, ‘I’m not going to tell you that one way is better than the other, but one thing that was never going to work between us is-’

‘Yeah I know,’ Tristan mumbled, lips glued to the bottle in his hand.

‘The way you enjoy pain,’ Danse finished.

Tristan hadn’t really expected him to put it that way. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, to be honest. Maybe something more judgmental. Something noting how his coping mechanisms were destructive and he had to stop. But it just sounded as if Danse saw it as something that was different between them. Tristan turned to look at the Paladin’s profile in the flickering light from the lamp. His sharp outline was softened slightly by a hint of smugness as he glanced over at Tristan. 

‘It’s not that I don’t understand it,’ Danse said, smiling. ‘It’s just that I don’t go to a… great place when I…do that.’

Tristan remember back the half hour before. The look of concern, or defeat, on Danse’s face as he grabbed Tristan’s mouth; his hands back in the bunker, stopping Tristan from making Danse hurt him. 

‘Shit…’ Tristan whispered, ‘That’s… I… Fucking hell.’ He put down the now empty bottle on the table. ‘I’m so sorry for… not listening to what you were trying to make me understand.’

Danse put up a hand and shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Not great, but it’s fine. If it had been actually dangerous to me, I would’ve said no. It’s more…’ A slight redness seemed to rise in the paladin’s face, but it was difficult to tell if Tristan only made it up in the surrounding darkness. ‘It’s more the fact that I need someone who doesn’t tempt me to go down that road.’

Tristan nodded. 

‘Though, ahm… I’ll remember our… _encounters_ vividly,’ Danse said, ending with clearing his throat. 

Tristan laughed softly. ‘Oh, so will I. Very vividly.’

They were silent for several minutes, slowly drinking another beer, looking into the star-littered sky.

‘I need to leave the Commonwealth,’ Danse said.

Tristan sighed softly. ‘I know. Or, I mean… I get it.’

‘And I… I think I will leave now, actually.’

A shudder, starting somewhere in Tristan’s chest, made it all the way out to his fingertips. He bit his lip and stood up. Danse did as well. 

It took a while for Tristan to be able to look into Danse’s eyes, and it was for nothing anyway, because as soon as he did, he started crying. Danse reached out and pulled him into a warm embrace. Tristan held onto Danse’s back, trying to get his hands to say all the apologies he could never put into words, all the thank yous he knew he would realize he should’ve said, for years to come; tried to spread every sense of humanity into this warm, loving man. 

‘You are the best this world has. You better stay alive, okay?’ Tristan said with a voice that refused to be fully stable. 

Danse squeezed Tristan even harder, putting his head on top of the Knight’s, sighing loudly. ‘That’s what I should be telling _you_. Knowing what you get up to…’ he softly released them both from the embrace and held onto Tristan’s shoulders, looking into his tear-streamed face. ‘If I find out that something has happened to you… I honestly don’t know what I’d do. So you better stay alive, you hear me?’

‘I’ll never forget you,’ Tristan said. It was a tired phrase, but it felt more like a promise to himself than to Danse. 

Danse smiled, kissed Tristan carefully, then harder, before letting go. He nodded towards Tristan and pointed up towards his own throat.

‘Well, not as long as you see those in the mirror at least,’ Danse said.

Tristan mimicked the motion Danse had performed - brought his hand up to his throat - feeling the sting of the bite marks the Paladin had left there. He laughed, which turned into a few more tears, then he sighed and shook his head. 

Danse leaned in for a last kiss, and then nodded in a motion similar to a salute. Tristan nodded back and stood watching Danse as he walked straight south from Tristan’s old house without turning around even once.


	5. Caps and Good Neighbors

_Entry 26:_

_You know who don’t have crises? Dogs. Not even one as smart as Dogmeat._

_//_

_Entry 27:_

_Welp. That should keep the institute off my back for a while. I didn’t like doing that. Guess synths aren’t above the very human behavior of hanging people on hooks and displaying them like art. _

_I need to get back to helping the railroad for a while. With everything that’s been going out lately, with everyone seemingly trying to get to them… And I dunno. After all this bullshit with the BoS I really feel the railroad is the only organized group that’s actually trying to do something good around here. _

_I’ll go talk to Amari in Goodneighbor. And see if I can find that merc. Dogmeat is the best dog, but too much silence has never been good for me._

//

‘… almost three months… Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty.’

Tristan froze in his step. He’d been directed to the door-less opening to the apparently “VIP”-area in the Third Rail to find the mercenary, going by the name MacCready according to a drifter in the bar, but apparently, he already had company. Tristan hung back, not wanting to cause trouble, but also willing to help out if there was already trouble happening. He couldn’t really make out the man the two camo-adorned other men were talking to, but it seemed as if they all three knew each other. 

‘Should we take this outside?’

Tristan could see him now, between the two others. There was something… _young_ about him; Tristan couldn’t really pinpoint what. His eyes seemed to dart in an insecure way between the two other men, despite his threatening words. Or maybe it was just his relatively lanky shape compared to the bulky, looming other two.

‘It ain’t like that’ said one of the two others, his voice a good octave lower than the mercenary’s, ‘I’m just here to deliver a message.’

‘In case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good,’ the mercenary said, standing up and pointing towards the others, a slight wobble in his posture.

‘Yeah, I heard,’ muttered the other man with a grin. ‘But you’re still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn’t going to work for us.’

‘I don’t take orders from you… not anymore. So why don’t you walk out of here while you still can?’ Tristan heard that the young man was trying, but it really didn’t come off as a powerful threat in any way. 

‘Listen up, MacCready,’ said the first man again, taking a step towards the mercenary, putting a finger against his chest. He didn’t move, just dully stared up at the other man under his large capped hat. ‘The only reason we haven’t filled your body full of bullets is that we don’t want a war with Goodneighbor. See, we respect other people’s boundaries…’ he took the step back again. ‘We know how to play the game. It’s something you never learned.’

‘Glad to have disappointed you,’ MacCready said, drawn out, sticking out his chin. 

The other man took the step towards him yet again, and this time, it caused the mercenary to move back. The man in front of him grinned into his face.

‘You can play the tough guy all you want. But if we hear you’re still operating inside Gunner territory, all bets are off. You got that?’

‘You finished?’ MacCready snapped. 

Tristan was ready to slink out again as he heard these men were Gunners of all things. He was obviously an idiot to think that anyone in the Commonwealth didn’t come with a whole sea of problems. But then the two men talking to MacCready turned around, and the mercenary looked straight at Tristan - saw that he obviously had both listened and waited his turn. Too awkward to just leave now. _Damnit._

The two other men were very obviously not going to give an inch to make way for Tristan, so he clumsily bumped into them and then into the room, towards MacCready, who had slumped back down into the chair and took a swig from a dusty bottle of bourbon next to him. _Explains the unsteadiness, I guess_. Tristan saw just how thin the man was now that he came close, but there was a bright glow in his eyes, despite his at least slight intoxication and he studied Tristan closely. Leaning against the wall next to the chair stood a well-worn sniper rifle. 

‘Look, pal,’ MacCready said, motioning the bottle in Tristan’s direction, ‘If you’re… preaching about Atom or looking for a friend, you’ve got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun… then maybe, we could talk.’ He took another swig.

Tristan scowled down towards the mercenary. It sounded like what he was after but would’ve been a whole lot more convincing had he not just witnessed an obvious amount of trouble walk out the door.

‘Maybe,’ Tristan said, crossing his arms, ‘Sounds like you can handle yourself, but I worry about those two guys throwing a wrench in the works. Should I?’

MacCready grunted. ‘Don’t. Winlock and Barnes couldn’t kill a squirrel with a rocket launcher, Gunners or not.’

Tristan scoffed. He wondered what exactly qualified as success with the Gunners. Then again, he thought, they seemed military, or like a caricature of military. And military was nothing but hierarchy.

‘And… you’re with the Gunners?’

‘Stuck with them for a while cause the money was good, but I never fit in. Nah, I made a clean break and started flying solo,’ MacCready said, transparently trying to sound as if that was an easy feat. He gave Tristan a pointed look. ‘And what about you? How do I know I won’t end up with a bullet in my back?’

Tristan noticed Dogmeat’s fur puffing up a little beside him, as MacCready almost imperceptibly shifted to a little more of a confrontational stance. Tristan reached down and stroked the dog’s head. Dogmeat gratefully met it but kept his eyes on the mercenary. 

‘I can give you my word,’ Tristan said, shrugging, ‘And a bunch of caps.’

‘Bunch of caps, huh? Okay, hotshot,’ MacCready said, standing up, managing to seem almost completely sober this time, ‘Tell you what. Price is two-hundred-and-fifty caps… up front. And there’s no room for bargaining.’

He was a little shorter than Tristan, and definitely much smaller in frame. Again, Tristan was struck by the thought of how young he looked, yet at the same time, there were lines on his face that didn’t belong to someone as young as he seemed. _What the hell do I know about aging nowadays_, Tristan thought. 

He nodded and reached down into the cap pouch he kept on the inside of his armor. On some particularly sleepless night weeks ago, he had divided the pouch into little tubes; fifty caps fitting into each of them, and also fitted it with a pretty intricate leather-band construction that made it possible to get the caps out quite easily. MacCready tried to not look confused by the ease with which Tristan presented the asked for amount. He quickly opened up his battered duster and motioned Tristan to dump the caps in a large, reinforced inner pouch. 

‘I’ll count them later, make sure it’s all there,’ he said and then he reached out his hand to Tristan, who took it, a little too hard, noting how he was used to… another set of hands. ‘I’m MacCready. And you just bought yourself a hired gun.’

‘Tristan, and this is Dogmeat, who’ll be happy to have a break now,’ Tristan said down towards the big dog who didn’t seem pleased at all. Tristan had never met a dog who understood commands as complicated as Dogmeat did, but then again… what the hell was still how it had been. 

As they made it out of the sewer-and-ale-smelling old subway station, MacCready lit a cigarette and nodded a greeting towards the Watch standing next to the entrance before turning to Tristan.

‘I’m just gonna go sort a thing before we set off okay? Won’t take a minute,’ he said, and walked off before Tristan could argue. 

The Watch, a ghoul with a tommy gun and a well-fitted suit, met Tristan’s eyes as he turned around, a little clueless if he was supposed to wait here for MacCready or by the entrance to Goodneighbor.

‘Your buddy MacCready’s got a rep here in Goodneighbor. Bad attitude. Good aim,’ the Watch said in a gravelly voice. 

‘And I should be watching my back, I guess?’ Tristan said tiredly.

‘Nah, nah,’ the Watch said, chuckling, grinning at Tristan, ‘He’s good. I’ll be watching yours as you leave, though,’ he continued, winking, and leaning back against the wall behind him. 

‘Happy to be of service,’ Tristan said, shaking his head a little, but unable to hold back a smile. It could’ve been uncomfortable, even threatening to be honest, but something in the way he had said it just made Tristan feel flattered. Or intrigued. Or like he needed to go out and _shoot something right now because okay now I’m uncomfortable._

Hurriedly, he made for the door leading out into the mess that was Goodneighbor’s surroundings. MacCready stood with crossed arms by the metal door, frowning.

‘What took you so long?’ he whined, rolling his eyes.

Tristan was about to reply but then just mumbled something incoherent about that he was sure this was all a wonderful idea. 

//

_Entry 28:_

_Des sent me to Ticonderonga safe house. /Everyone/ is dead. Killed. These were Shaun’s bloody orders. I can’t believe this._

_I hate this._

_//_

_Entry 29:_

_It’s time. I have to go back to the Institute. This can’t go on. Seeing what they did at the safe house… I need to find a way to stop this. They can’t keep doing this. The world isn’t their experiment.  
We’re not their experiment. _

_//_

As with every time Tristan had to talk to Shaun, he got the chills as he walked up to him. He wished he could deny it. It was easier when he wasn’t staring into… himself. And Nora. Sometimes, when Shaun didn’t move, it was uncanny. But as soon as the old man said something, did something, he didn’t recognize anything. 

Tristan hadn’t been back since helping out with the synth that had taken over the raiders at Libertalia. A boat of massacre. Seemed human enough to Tristan. 

‘I know the task was difficult, but I needed you to see firsthand how dangerous a rogue synth can be,’ Shaun said in that calm, calculated voice of his. 

Tristan was close to lashing out, as he so often was talking to this man. _Just as dangerous as any human._ He tried to calm himself down. 

‘Why do you care what happens on the surface? You’re in your own world down here.’ Or, failing calming himself, channel it into something he could be angry about without giving himself away too much. 

‘We know that there are groups intending to harm us, who believe _we_ intend harm to mankind. We need to keep ahead of them,’ Shaun said. 

Tristan quickly had enough of the speeches. It made his skin crawl, feeling like it was just another Brotherhood, just another military, just another pile of rhetoric intended to excuse terrible behavior. 

He excused himself, wanting to find this… ‘Patriot’ that he had been told to find by the Railroad. _Patriot_. Tristan snorted as he tried to navigate the blindingly white corridors of the Institute. 

Before Shaun had made it to their appointment, Tristan had gone through his computer. He probably shouldn’t have, but he needed to get whatever it was that Tom wanted on a holotape anyway, might as well do it here. Now, he wished he hadn’t. The things he found… Maybe it was good, after all. It put another nail in the coffin to the faint hope he carried that there was something empathic for the world above in Shaun. He enforced a distance to his emotions, truly saw anything outside the institute as lost, hopeless, there to further the growth of this overgrown laboratory. If nothing else, seeing what Shaun actually thought of other humans only stoked the fire and willingness in Tristan to help everyone who wanted out of this godforsaken place. 

//

_Entry 30:_

_I really wish I didn’t know he was mine. That’s awful to say, I know. But he really is a stranger. And not a pleasant one. Godamnit. I’m so sorry Nora._

_God fucking damnit. _

//

‘Look, I get that you’re all… fighting the good fight for the Commonwealth and whatever, but I can’t remember the last time we did something that actually put caps in our pockets, chief,’ MacCready said, having gracelessly avoided what he wanted to say through snide comments and passive aggressive grunts for hours. 

‘Finally!’ Tristan exclaimed, throwing his hands up. 

‘What?’ MacCready said, stopping in his tracks.

Tristan turned towards him. They were standing in the shadow of a torn apart highway high above them. It was warm. Tristan wondered what season this could qualify as. Maybe there weren’t any anymore. He sighed.

‘Your mood has been even worse than usual, my friend,’ Tristan said, knocking up a cigarette from a crumpled little package in his hip pouch. A habit he had taken back up recently, ostensibly to try and not hit the chems so hard again. He didn’t know if it would work. He held out the package to MacCready, who took one, despite his sullen face at Tristan’s comment. 

‘I’m not here to make friends,’ he snapped at Tristan. 

‘Yeah, I remember.’ Tristan sat down in the dry grass, putting the shotgun, which now resembled some kind of freakish metal accident thanks to his attempts at modification lately. But it worked. Really well. ‘And you’re right. We could definitely use to go on a caps-run. And I think I need things to cool around the little… whatever we’ve got going at the Institute right now, honestly.’

‘I told you, I don’t want to hear about all that crap,’ MacCready said before Tristan had finished.

‘Jesus, okay,’ Tristan sighed. ‘I swear I knew trigger-happy meatheads in the army more interested in the reason they’re fighting than you.’

‘_You’re_ fighting. I’m just aiming where you point,’ MacCready corrected, emphasizing his statement with a vaguely shotgun wielding-resembling motion. 

‘That’s….’ Tristan scoffed. ‘If you _really_ felt that way, you wouldn’t give a shit about me talking about it.’ 

MacCready looked up at Tristan with an angry start, scoffing right back, though he didn’t seem to have anything more to say on the subject.

‘Anyway. Quite… _Quite_ a while ago I got a lead on helping out a guy who seemed uh… Really rich. Little weird, but who isn’t, yeah?’ Tristan stubbed the cigarette out against the sole of his boot. ‘They might’ve found someone else to sort it for them, but I… kinda doubt it, to be honest. They seemed a little desperate. And I think I was one of the few people who actually gave them the time of day.’ He fell silent as MacCready shot him another sullen eye. ‘But yeah. Rich?’ he added with a small smile and a shrug.

‘Sound good, yeah,’ MacCready said, seemingly keeping his grumpy face more as an attempt to make a point than to emphasize his feeling about the prospect, because Tristan noticed a distinct spring in his step as he jumped to his feet. 

_Wonder if I’ll ever get what the hell this guy’s deal with caps is_, Tristan thought as they set off towards Sanctuary to restock for going to the State Asylum, which Tristan chose _not_ to tell MacCready was the place House Cabot had sent him. 

//

Tristan had the distinct feeling of interrupting something as he walked up to MacCready and Cait. They were sitting leaned back in mildewed deck chairs each side of a crooked, rusted metal table, trying to silence the laughter from what seemed like a long, complicated joke. Cait gave Tristan a sheepish look, but a wide smile, as he approached. He frowned at her, smiling back carefully. 

‘Should I… leave again?’ he said.

‘Nah, nah, chief,’ MacCready said, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt, ‘I was just going to bed. Still healing from that mirelurk.’

‘I’m sure the beer will help with the healing,’ Tristan said, nodding towards the six empty bottles on the table.

MacCready gave him a questioning look and a snort. ‘Yeah, I think it will actually. With sleeping and all that,’ he said, the words trailing off as he started to walk into the settlement. 

Tristan was very grateful the mercenary didn’t give him more grief than that over his comment. He wasn’t proud of it. Looking down at Cait, who hadn’t moved a muscle to indicate she was going to get up, Tristan noted the pointed look she was giving him. She nodded down towards the empty chair. Tristan shrugged and sat down. 

‘I’m guessin’ you don’t need me to tell you what a load of shite it is that _you’re_ telling someone to drink less,’ she said in a tone that indicated she didn’t want an answer. Because of that, the pause she left was one Tristan let be silent. He shook some of the bottles on the tables and found that one of them was only half-finished. He took it, and a draft of it. It was warm. He grimaced. 

‘You just let him walk, eh?’ Cait continued. 

‘I think he’s made of sterner stuff than not being able to take my sour comments by now, believe me,’ Tristan said with a small laugh. 

‘Not him, you dipshit,’ Cait snarled. Tristan’s smile instantly disappeared, and he froze, looking at her. He was not used to hear Cait talk without even a hint of a smile on her lips. 

‘Your Paladin,’ she continued, nodding towards the direction Danse walked three weeks earlier. 

The words felt like a knife to the gut to Tristan. He heard his breathing become shallower instantly. He couldn’t answer immediately. 

‘I _let_ him walk because he wanted to walk,’ he said finally, voice strained. ‘And… It didn’t exactly feel like it at the time, but I know now that it was the right choice. We were too different.’

Cait scoffed. ‘Too different? I mean, yeah, I can see that you were different in a lot of ways, but you were also a lot alike. He seemed to get the things that I couldn’t wrap my head around with you. The army stuff and all that.’ She still sounded angry. 

At that, it was Tristan’s turn to scoff. ‘Yeah. Which is shit I don’t want to think about every time I look at a person.’ It was as if he hadn’t properly realized that being the case. Every time he looked at Danse, every time he heard his voice, every time he saw him move, his brain turned on a compartment he was happy to have locked away. That place that made him always alert, always afraid, always ready for disaster. 

Cait turned to look at Tristan. Her anger seemed to have vanished, her eyes were big, open, apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, darlin’, I didn’t think of that,’ she said softly, putting the bottle she had been holding tightly with both her hands down on the table with a soft clink. 

‘Me neither, honestly,’ Tristan muttered. He sighed. ‘I should’ve talked to you about it earlier. Things have just been… Ach. No, bad excuse. I didn’t want to think about it. About him. I miss… I miss some things about him.’

Cait grinned widely, teeth glittering in the moon light. Tristan rolled his eyes and took a deep swig from the bottle, trying not to think about backwash. 

‘Not _just_ that,’ he said.

Cait laughed then, taking her bottle again. ‘No, I know, I know… I get it. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out.’ She stood up, stretching. ‘No matter how good the sex is.’

Tristan let out a sharp laugh through his teeth. ‘You can _work_ on bad sex. Other things…’

‘Exactly,’ Cait nodded, pulling Tristan from his chair and hooking her arm in his. ‘Now, you need sleep, you look awful.’

‘You always know how to make me feel better,’ Tristan mumbled, letting himself get dragged into the ruins of Sanctuary.

//

‘Do you still… do you still use the bathrooms as bathrooms?’ Tristan said, hearing how weird it sounded and hoped he didn’t offend anyone by this. Then again, they were back in Goodneighbor, he didn’t know if people knew what offended meant around here. They just seemed to shove the butt of a rifle up your nose if you pissed them off. 

Ham, the ghoul keeping track of who moved up and down the stairs to the bar, gave Tristan a confused look.

‘I mean,’ Tristan continued, ‘I suppose it’s not, you know, connected to the… sewers anymore… You know what nevermi-’

‘Yeah, man, just piss in the buckets we’ve placed. Seemed weird to have them any other place than were the sign says restroom, you know?’ Ham said.

‘Right. Yep. That… Makes sense.’

MacCready rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he muttered.

Tristan slunk back into the starkly lit restrooms, hearing there was someone else there. He’d always found public bathroom manners uncomfortable, so he chose to just walk up to the nearest urinal - where there indeed was placed an enamel bucket - held his breath to deal with the incredibly foul smell hanging in the air, and did his business as quickly as he could. When he turned around again, the Watch from earlier stood leaning against one of the dilapidated stalls, watching him. He held up his hands to show he meant no trouble, possibly, as Tristan eyed him. 

‘Just saw that it was you, you’re not a man one forgets in a heartbeat,’ the ghoul said with the grin that seemed more or less stuck on his face. 

‘That could be… good and bad,’ Tristan said. 

The ghoul laughed ‘I know you’re heading out - you seem to be a busy man but - you know, if you ever have a reason to celebrate any of your great achievements out there, no place parties like Goodneighbor. And, you know… You looking for company when that time comes, hit me up,’ he said with a wink, which somehow managed to be both corny and effective, before walking out of the restroom.

‘Good to know,’ Tristan whispered to no one. 

MacCready dropped his cigarette as Tristan stormed out of the Third Rail, and simultaneously almost choked on an inhale. Coughing, he jogged up to Tristan. ‘What the f- Ungh. Why the hurry all of a sudden?’ he snarled. 

‘Well, you know, kidnapping can turn ugly quickly,’ Tristan almost shouted, which was very unnecessary, so then he tried to smooth it over by slowing down as they made it outside of Goodneighbor’s wall. ‘Who knows, maybe there’s a bonus if we bring her back quickly?’  
MacCready simply nodded at Tristan’s weird behavior which was still hanging around in the dark-haired man’s eyebrows. Thankfully, MacCready didn’t seem to notice that Tristan was awkwardly carrying his hip pouch in front of his crotch for about five minutes before putting it where he usually had it.


	6. Impressions

‘So… you impressed yet?’

Tristan wasn’t sure he heard MacCready correctly at first. 

They had finally got Emogene Cabot free from being locked up by that preacher creep and Tristan had noticed something… different about MacCready since walking away from that. Something had happened; Tristan had not appreciated a single piece of preacher Thomas’ reasoning, and had snapped. Just… snapped. Put-a-gun-to-his-throat-and-told-him-to-fucking-open-the-door-snapped. And, to his great surprise, another gun had joined in that threat: MacCready’s sniper rifle. And then, there was a look, and, Tristan could’ve sworn, an actual smile from the mercenary. And now, while they sat down in a trashed old school bus for a bit of rest, he could swear he saw that smile again. 

Impressed, huh? He had stopped counting the amount of times he had whispered “holy fuck” under his breath at MacCready’s headshots. _Oh, what the hell._

‘Actually, I’m quite impressed,’ he said with a smile of his own. He tossed MacCready a bottle of Gwinnett ale and started to put together a makeshift cooking spit. Rain hammered on the tin roof of the bus. Almost cozy. If they hadn’t both smelled like feral-goo. 

‘Yeah, I thought you might be,’ MacCready said, opening the bottle with some part of his rifle. He then begun his daily routine of taking apart the weapon and cleaning it. As he thought every day, Tristan figured he should do that himself, at least some time, but didn’t. 

He thought that would be the end of the conversation, since it was more than MacCready had said in this tone ever, but he continued.

‘I’m completely self-taught, you know. Picked up a sniper rifle when I was ten and I never looked back. Always thought it was smarter to hit my targets at long range. I mean, why take chances, right? Besides, I had to come up with every trick in the book to survive the Capital Wasteland.’ MacCready kept his eyes on his work as he spoke, and Tristan didn’t know if he should say something or not. He felt as if he was holding a delicate bird in his hands and was afraid it would fly away. Were they… actually having a conversation? As that thought had hit him, he realized how much he had missed that. That he had partially brought MacCready along to have someone to talk to, but that had obviously backfired. Until now, perhaps? 

‘What were you doing in the Capital Wasteland?’ Tristan tried.

‘I was born there. Lived underground, in a place called Little Lamplight with a bunch of other kids. Left there when I was around sixteen. Kinda had a policy there… No adults. When you were sixteen, you packed up and left.’ He sounded almost cheerful at the memory. ‘I know… It sounds crazy. But we couldn’t trust having adults around.’

‘Makes sense I suppose,’ Tristan interjected, realizing that might be pushing it.

MacCready scoffed. ‘Nothing makes sense anymore. You just roll with the punches.’

Tristan was pretty sure the bird had flied by now. 

They were quiet for a while, and Tristan finally managed to get a fire going and rummaged around in the plastic part of his bag to see what he could cook. It smelled horrendous, but he hoped that was more about what stuck to the container, than the meat itself. _Will just have to burn the shit out of it. As usual._

‘Anyway,’ MacCready said and Tristan jumped a little. ‘When I hit sixteen, I ended up wandering the Capital Wasteland for a while. I took the odd job here and there, but things were pretty hot with the Brotherhood of Steel running the show.’

Tristan froze as he mentioned the Brotherhood. A wave of memories hit, all at once and he swallowed - turned a little so that MacCready didn’t see how his hands helplessly started to shake. Thankfully, MacCready was still occupied with his rifle. 

‘So, I hitched a ride with a caravan and made my way up north until I ended up here. Made a pretty decent name for myself before I heard that the Gunners needed some sharpshooters.’ He sighed sharply. ‘Biggest mistake of my life.’ He paused. ‘They were animals. Killed anything that moved if it got in their way. I went with it for a while, because the caps were good. But, I dunno. I guess it started to catch up with me…. So, I quit.’ Again, Tristan could hear how he wanted to make that sound as something that was over and out. ‘Which pretty much brings us to now. And well, there you have it. My whole life in a nutshell.’ 

MacCready managed to time finishing his sentence with putting the final piece of his rifle in place and loaded it with a satisfying click. All still with a smile on his face. Tristan wanted to say something that showed how much he appreciated it, that he needed someone to just talk to a bit just as much as he needed a very good sharpshooter.

‘The road can be a lonely place, until you meet someone to share it with,’ he said, and it sounded a lot more vague than he had meant. And he said it a lot softer than he intended. And then he realized exactly how it probably sounded. 

‘I… well… I never thought of it that way,’ MacCready stammered.

Tristan felt more as if he had stomped the bird to death now, than having let it go. And then, he didn’t know what to think, because MacCready gave him a wide smile, stained teeth and all; a face Tristan was sure he had never seen the likeness of on the mercenary before. 

‘Maybe that’s why I felt comfortable telling you all this.’

‘I-’

‘Look,’ MacCready said, stopping Tristan, ‘I know I tend to be a pain in the a- I mean I know I tend to be arrogant and come off like I want to be alone. But honestly…’ he sighed pointedly, dropping his tense shoulders, ‘That’s not true. Being alone scares the heck out of me. Now that we’ve been traveling together for a while, I’m beginning to realize how much I missed having someone around to depen- to talk to. I… just wanted you to know that I’m going to try and see that it stays this way. Sorry I’ve been… you know.’ He smiled more sheepishly now, shrugging an apology. 

Tristan just sat still on the floor of the bus, fire all but roaring next to him, with an empty stick intended to become a skewer pointed straight up towards the ceiling. He felt completely dumbfounded at the change in MacCready’s attitude, his whole bearing towards Tristan. 

‘It’s… it’s fine,’ he finally said, after a cough. ‘I mean, it’s weird how I thought I was somehow owed you being nice to me without even knowing me. I’m still…’ he sighed, remembering the whole package that actually came with having conversations. How messed up his life was. ‘I’m still learning.’

‘That story about you being frozen from before the war is true, then?’ 

Tristan flinched a little. ‘Ah… yes. Yeah. There’s a story?’

MacCready grinned at Tristan. ‘Hey, there might be a lot of weird stuff going on in the Commonwealth, but a two-hundred-year-old popsicle who saw the world before it went to crap? That’s big news, even here.’

‘Heh.’ Tristan wondered how those stories went. He doubted many of them kept close to the truth. He guessed that interview he did with Piper might have done the rounds in Goodneighbor as well, not that he had been explicit about what he’d been through there. 

‘Sorry. Is it weird I knew that?’ MacCready said, chomping on a lukewarm piece of radstag he had snatched from the skewer Tristan held over the fire, despite Tristan’s warning motions as he did so.

‘Actually, it’s sort of a relief. I’m not sure how to say it without it sounding like I’m crazy. “Hi, I’m two-hundred-and-thirty-five years old” just doesn’t feel…’ He laughed a little. 

‘I guess crazy is a good word for coming back out to this mess, though. I can’t even imagine,’ MacCready said, moving closer to the fire as the wind picked up outside and made the moist air in the bus creepingly chilly. 

In this light, with his chin resting on his spindly legs, and the seemingly premature deep wrinkle between his eyebrows covered by hair, MacCready really looked like a kid in his early twenties. _Like me when I joined the army_, Tristan thought, the smile that had managed to stay unusually long on his face finally retreating for the night.

//

_Entry 31:_

_I’m just going to take down that whole House Cabot business as… ‘weird on a whole other level’. Geez. But yeah, we did get paid quite a bit so… Yey?_

//

Sometimes, when there was no chattering from approaching mirelurks, no beeping from a suicidal super mutant, and not even a tiny bit of gunfire heard, Tristan actually thought this version of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was still damn beautiful. Things were a mess. But life prevailed. The sun was in the sky. Things could be worse. 

MacCready wandered up next to him, hanging his rifle in the holster on his back and peered up into the sunlight as they walked alongside the admittedly disgusting-looking waterside. 

‘It really is nice to be on the open road again. Goodneighbor was honestly staring to wear out its welcome,’ he said.

Since their first actual conversation, MacCready had not exactly been talkative, but his whole air was different. He smiled occasionally and shouted encouraging, or jokingly dismissive, battle cries on a good day. 

They’d run some odd jobs for the Railroad after the weirdness of House Cabot, with Tristan still waiting for things to cool a bit around the Institute, and they had been keeping themselves pretty busy. Tristan realized that he could probably do with more than four hours of a sleep tonight. He was definitely running on bonus energy right now, buzzing with the last zing of mentats. He knew MacCready didn’t seem super fond of him doing chems, so he tried to stay away from it, or, as now, do it behind his back. _What you don’t know and so on… _

‘What makes you say that?’ Tristan said, thinking Goodneighbor seemed at least top five places to not really get boring anytime soon at least. 

‘Ach… Good place to look for work, but crappy place to hang your hat,’ MacCready said, pulling a pair of scratched sunglasses from his belt and put them on. ‘Let’s put it this way. Can’t get much rest when you’re sleeping with one eye open.’

Tristan yawned, as if on cue. _How’s that any different from the open road_, he thought. 

‘Still, it was the best place for me to set up shop. Diamond City’s goons would have run me out of town and wandering the Commonwealth alone isn’t the brightest plan when you’re hard up for caps.’

‘Set up… mercenary shop, yes?’ 

‘Ah, yeah… Folks in Goodneighbor tend to not ask too many questions which… suited my needs. So, I made a deal with Hancock and started waiting for the caps to roll in.’

Tristan vividly remembered Goodneighbor’s mayor. He wondered what kind of deal that was. And there was that caps-obsession again.

‘I gotta say…’ Tristan said, ‘In times like these, caps make little sense to me. Or, well, it just seems like some other system might have been more effective.’

‘They might make little sense to you, but right now, I need every cap I can get.’ There was a defensiveness in MacCready’s voice; he sounded like he used to back in the beginning of their agreement.

‘But… why?’

‘I don’t have much of a choice. I…’ he reached up to scratch underneath his big hat and moved to stand in front of Tristan, who stopped with a puzzled look. ‘You know I don’t really go around sharing stuff but… you’ve been pretty straight with me, so I’m going to be straight with you.’

‘Okay…?’ Tristan said, and his experience with trying to get to know people in the Commonwealth really made his imagination run wild right now. Was it drugs, like Cait? Was he going to tell Tristan to lay off it because it triggered his own struggles? Was he sent to kill Tristan by the Institute? Had they found him out? Was he another synth?

‘It’s those two assh- those two idiots you saw me talking to at the Third Rail, Winlock and Barnes.’

_Oh. Right. That’s a lot more logical._

‘They’ve been hounding me for months and it’s been driving off clients. No one wants to touch me once they learn I used to run with the Gunners,’ he muttered. ‘And… I figured if I could get enough caps together, maybe I could buy them out.’

‘I… honestly wouldn’t trust those guys, even if you paid them off. I mean, from what you’ve said, and what I’ve seen of the Gunners, they don’t seem to be about… you know, honor.’

‘Yeah… I’m right there with you,’ MacCready said with a sigh. ‘I mean, they have a small army of Gunners with them at all times. They will probably just decide to keep the caps and put a bullet in my head for good measure. If I set up a place to meet them… I’m sure they’d roll in with everyone they’ve got. Unless…’ He smiled. It was not the cheerful smile Tristan had seen when they’d talked before; it was the smile he’d glimpsed in the corner of his eye when MacCready managed to put a bullet in someone’s head. 

‘Maybe you and I could pay them a little visit and put an end to them before they realize what’s even going on. And before you get that look on your face,’ he motioned towards Tristan who didn’t really know what face he had accidentally pulled, ‘I wouldn’t even be asking if I didn’t trust you.’

‘I mean… if you need me, sure, I’m there. Let’s take down those assholes,’ Tristan said with a shrug. It sounded like a no-brainer. 

‘I… okay, wow, I don’t really know what to say. I didn’t expect you to just… go with it,’ MacCready said with a scoff. 

‘Want me to change my mind?’ Tristan said, leaning in towards MacCready a bit, who seemed to blush a little at it. He backed away a step and flicked up the cap of his hat.

‘Truth is, heh… I haven’t been able to rely on a lot of people since I was a kid, really. Almost everyone I’ve met has either tried to rip me off or plant a knife in my back. You… You’re different. We seem to see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. I even have a funny feeling…’ this time, MacCready leaned in towards Tristan, who smirked at the grin on the mercenary’s face. ‘… that you actually care about what happens to me.’

Tristan gasped, putting a hand in front of his mouth. ‘No! Please don’t tell anyone, it will be the death of me,’ he said dramatically, while also realizing that his hand was practically gray from road dust.

MacCready gave him a big, toothy grin. ‘You feel like helping me with this, head over to the Mass Pike Interchange and we’ll take them down. If you don’t, I’ll tell everyone.’

‘Thought you didn’t have any friends,’ Tristan said with smile a and started walking again, since MacCready had now moved aside.

‘Oh, ouch,’ he said, jogging up next to Tristan. ‘I’ll remind you every day about it, then.’

‘That’ll do it. Let’s go ruin some Gunners’ day.’

‘Oh, by the way, they have an Assaultron.’

‘Oh.’

‘And Winlock has a set of power armor I think?’

‘_Oh._’ Tristan stopped. ‘You know what, we’re going to make this trip by Sanctuary,’ he said, turning around the way they came.

//

‘Uuurgh… I’d _kill_ for a drink,’ MacCready whined, slumping down into a rusted chair with at least part of its stuffing still in the seat. 

Tristan, without stopping his welding, reached out his hand to the little cooling box that stood in one of the metal shelves in the repair station, grabbed a brown bottle of lager with a satisfying clink and tossed it over to MacCready, who just barely managed to catch it in time.

‘That would be a sad way to go for me,’ Tristan said, before starting up the welder again, and brought it towards the plate of the power armor with a blinding hiss. If MacCready replied something, he didn’t hear it. 

His mercenary companion had muttered something about waste of resources when Tristan told him he had to change the breastplate on the Brotherhood PA before they could go, claiming political reasons, not personal. The complaints had been short lived, though. MacCready had probably realized that he really didn’t want trouble with the Brotherhood on top of all this. 

Tristan really hoped that MacCready would just assume that he had stolen this suit of armor. Going into _that_ whole thing was… He didn’t want to do that. It was easier to look at this impressive piece of metal now that it didn’t have the Brotherhood emblem staring at him. It still smelled a little like Danse, though. That was not ideal. But it was far superior to any of his other scrounged together suits, so this would be it. It would be an even sadder way to go to die because he couldn’t handle a bit of sentimentality, than being killed over a drink. 

‘So, you want one of your own? I have more than this one. They’re not as good, but still more than nothing,’ Tristan said, motioning towards the armor, hearing how his offer sounded insulting on several levels. But he wanted someone else to get into _this_ armor even less than he was willing to put up with it himself. 

MacCready snorted. ‘What, with you in that thing? I’ll have better cover than I’ve had in my entire life. I’m not going to _make_ me a target,’ he said, knocking on the metal with the bottle. It clanged softly in response. 

It was a very good point. And MacCready was best at a distance. He’d been crowded by ferals at one point during their travels, and Tristan honestly thought that would be the last he ever saw of the scrawny little sharpshooter. But he was tenacious. Stubborn. An impressive will to survive under all that frowning. 

‘Very well, just throw me at any assaultrons,’ Tristan said, opened up the armor, and felt awkward at the wave of emotions the sound and sight of it awakened in him. He sighed and got into the suit with a grunt. 

He turned on the headlights since dusk was settling in. It had turned out that both he and MacCready were at their best during the night, so it had become habit to set out at this time, when their business allowed. 

‘Well, damn,’ MacCready said under his breath, and it sounded as if he hadn’t intended to say it out loud by the way he cut his last word off. 

Tristan couldn’t help grinning, knowing MacCready couldn’t see it behind the helmet. Then he frowned. He didn’t know he’d wanted to impress back, but apparently that was the case. He snorted at himself. _Okay, weird._

‘Alright, lead the way, cannon fodder,’ MacCready said, clapping a little at the armor’s arm. 

‘Gee, thanks,’ Tristan replied in the echoing hollow of the armor. 

//

_Entry 32:_

_We passed Fort Hagen on our way to Mass Pike. Damn. Feels like another life. That… panic. The hope I had. What seemed possible then, what seems… what /is/ impossible now. _

_These two months have been… a hell of a couple of months._

//

‘MacCready… MacCready!’ 

Tristan instinctively got out of the armor and hesitated for just a second, before running up to the young man and grabbed his arm as it arched up in the air. Blood flew from it onto Tristan’s face and he just barely managed to stop it from again meeting the massacred face of the Gunner MacCready was hunching over. 

Tristan caught a glimpse of MacCready’s knuckles. They were a mess. He wished he didn’t know himself how much it hurt to break that amount of bones in someone’s face, but he did. MacCready wouldn’t be able to fire a gun for a while, especially if Tristan let him continue. 

He had hoped that the run with the Gunners had just been a wakeup call for MacCready, that his life in Little Lamplight had been a rare, safe, sheltered place for him, and that the violence of the Gunners had been shocking, but not actually hurtful to him. But what Tristan had seen now… The blind rage that had overcome MacCready as he got to Winlock… The man gradually turning into pulp underneath MacCready’s fist represented something that had broken in him. 

Tristan caught the mercenary’s other hand as well and, without hands to get his anger out through, MacCready simply screamed at the mangled man on the ground. Tristan had never heard that sound come out of him before. Then, he lost all strength in his body, hanging from Tristan’s grip. 

Acting on reflex, Tristan quickly moved to hold him, and MacCready didn’t resist at all, simply fell against the larger man’s body, shaking with used up anger. He didn’t seem to be crying. _Sometimes there’s no more of that left._

After a couple of minutes, MacCready shifted. ‘Can we… stand up?’ he said in a subdued, thick voice. 

‘Mhm,’ Tristan muttered affirmatively, nodding, supporting himself on the old car wreck they had slumped against, and managed to get them both on their feet. 

MacCready held onto Tristan’s arm as they slowly made it a bit away, towards another one of the Gunners’ little camps, away from the bodies and steaming heaps of broken robots. Once they reached the makeshift shelter, Tristan put MacCready down into a complaining steel chair. MacCready placed his head in his blood-soaked hands, seemingly not minding how it got all over his face and hair as he did so. 

Tristan quickly woke the embers in the middle of the camp into a decent fire. He sat down on the ground, shuddering, even though he could still feel sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. Sighing, he pulled an unopened bottle of bourbon from his backpack, unscrewed the cap and took three big swigs from it, before handing it over to MacCready. He took it without looking up at Tristan, but by what could be glimpsed among the shadows thrown by hair and hands, MacCready’s blood and dirt stained face was quite a grim visage. And, for some reason, Tristan found it really hot. That, in turn, made him feel his entire face flash red, grateful that the mercenary wasn’t looking at him. _What is wrong with me. The man is in pain and grieving and… what. What?_

With a long, pointed sigh, MacCready leaned back in the chair and took the double number of swigs as Tristan, who could see the mercenary clearly now, in the uneven flickering of the fire. Their eyes met and Tristan managed to make it very obvious that it made him uncomfortable by making a way too big deal out of looking away. It was unclear if it fazed the mercenary right now. He just leaned towards Tristan and reached the bottle over again without a change in expression. 

‘I…’ MacCready started, but had to clear his throat before continuing, ‘I get it if you don’t want me to stick around after that,’ he continued, and his eyebrows sunk over his eyes. He almost looked like a completely different man. 

‘Oh,’ Tristan said without thinking. That was perhaps what he _should_ have felt. What he absolutely did not feel. He took a swig. The exhaustion, the dehydration, the adrenaline all worked to send the alcohol to his brain with express speed. 

‘Nah. I get it. I mean… I don’t know exactly what you feel, but… I’ve done... that. _Had_ to do that. At one point. And… some points after that.’ It just sort of fell out of Tristan’s mouth, and he was aimlessly staring into the fire. He tried to keep the actual memories from joining him by keeping a very steady eye on them inside his head, even if that felt counterproductive.

MacCready didn’t reply at once. _What could he say?_ Tristan thought. 

‘Did it help?’ the mercenary said quietly after a while.

‘No,’ Tristan said quickly. Then, after a pause, quieter, ‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes. He couldn’t keep it at bay. 

It rushed over him. Lieutenant Wicker’s face caving, finally, under his fist. Him thinking that the Lieutenant shouldn’t have trained him so well in how to _hurt_ because now it came back to _hurt_ him. Thinking that he should stop but… he… just… couldn’t… Voss standing by him. He could stop him, but he… _Why don’t you stop me? Help me Voss, why aren’t you helping me stop?_

Tristan’s breath hitched and he opened his eyes with a start. How much time had passed? Had he blacked out? Had he just closed his eyes for a while? The light of the fire seemed duller than it had been. 

He looked up at MacCready. He was asleep in the chair, the bottle of bourbon balancing precipitously in his hand on his knee. Tristan took it, without even a stir from the mercenary. Guess that meant he felt kind of secure. Or was just exhausted. And drunk. 

Tristan took a deep draught from the bottle. _Fucking hell._

_Bad memories. Bad, bad fucking memories. _

//

Tristan woke to a soft shaking of his shoulder. MacCready sat hunched next to him with a careful smile. 

‘I’m not gonna force you to wake up, but maybe find a better place to sleep than… just on the ground?’ he said with a frown. 

Tristan grunted and heaved himself up, feeling how incredibly uncomfortable his accidental sleeping surface was, and how it had messed up his entire back. 

‘Oh shit…’ he gasped as something _pulled_ in his back and he just froze up for a while, waiting for it to let go. As it slowly did, he sighed, shaking his head at MacCready’s questioning look. ‘Urgh… no… Breakfast, I think.’

‘Well I, uh… I have made _something_,’ MacCready said, scratching his head demonstratively, motioning towards an assortment of things sizzling in a makeshift pan made of what looked to be flattened tin cans. It didn’t smell terrible, which was rare enough when cooking things in the Commonwealth, honestly. ‘You need to clean that bag of yours.’

Tristan grunted in reply and got two containers of purified water out of it, and, getting a whiff of the plastic meat-container himself, he almost gagged. Resolutely, he tore it out of the bag and threw it over the side of the highway. 

‘What are you-!’ MacCready exclaimed, almost looking as if he was going to jump after it as a reflex, but then he shrugged. ‘Actually, that was a very good idea.’

‘I very rarely have them,’ Tristan said, trying a small smile, that only made his headache worse. He picked at the sizzling little pieces in the pan and started eating them. They tasted like fried meat, which was welcome. ‘So… how are we thinking about the Gunners retaliating?’

‘Eh,’ MacCready grunted with a shrug, ‘The way these lunatics act you’d think they would, but I know better. For the Gunners, it’s always about the bottom line. They just lost this entire waystation and that cost them big. We don’t have to worry.’ Tristan could see that MacCready’s eyes darted towards his own hands before continuing. ‘Anyway, I guess I owe you a favor now. After all, you hired _me_, but I’m the one that dragged you out here.’

Tristan frowned. ‘You don’t owe me.’ He was going to say it with a smile, but he could hear how it almost sounded like a threat. _That wasn’t right._

‘I like everything to remain nice and even,’ MacCready sounded friendlier than Tristan, not that that was difficult. ‘You’re one up on me.’ He started digging into one of his big inner pockets while he talked. ‘Tell you what. I’m going to give you back the caps you paid me in Goodneighbor.’ He quickly got the amount out of the pocket. 

Tristan gave him a surprised look, nodding towards the pocket. 

‘I liked your solution. Don’t know if mine is as good as yours, but it works,’ he said with a grin and handed Tristan the caps. 

He took them. He got it. Wanting to be even. Not feeling like you owe someone, no matter what they said. He put the caps in his own little compartments. When he was done, he patted the M.I.L.A that was strapped to the side of his bag.

‘Well, hey, with this little party ended, what say you we go and strengthen Tom’s conspiracy-network?’ 

MacCready rolled his eyes. ‘You’re the boss…’ he mumbled, getting to his feet and pouring a bucket with hell-knows-what in it over the embers in the fireplace. 

//

_That’s blood. That is absolutely blood going into my eye and now I can’t see_. 

Tristan screamed, hearing how broken his voice sounded and rushed the super mutant, defying the bad logic in meant to run at anyone holding a minigun like it was nothing. But he was out of bullets in all his guns, and the mutant was reloading. He had no choice. 

The vicious-looking wrench he had welded a variety of hostile metal pieces too met the green, blood stained skin with a wet ripping sound. A viscous, dark liquid seeped from the now wailing mutant, who tried to knock Tristan off itself with the minigun, now that he was too close to be fired at. Tristan just kept hitting, grabbing onto the hulking humanoid, since his life truly depended on it. 

He lost his breath as the super mutant swung around, making him dangle momentarily over the edge of the sunroof they were on, and catch a glimpse of the unbelievable height they were at. With one last whack, the wrench penetrated the thick bone of the super mutant’s skull and it stumbled towards the overgrown, turbid swimming pool they had skirted in this little skirmish. Tristan leaped off, while the super mutant fell into the foul water with a loud splash. 

Tristan’s ears were ringing. He dropped the wrench because he had no strength left in his arms. He saw MacCready go down minutes ago. He’d heard nothing; no gunshots, no yelling, nothing. Dizzily, he reeled back towards the highway running along the sunroof, where he last saw his companion. 

Ten super mutants lay in various states of lynching in the little wooden shelters built around the broken asphalt. No sign of MacCready. Then he heard something - something that might be breathing. He jogged unsteadily in the direction of the noise and turned the corner of a sloppily painted green wooden wall. MacCready sat slumped against it, holding his abdomen. There was a lot of blood. He wasn’t moving.

Tristan sat down, tearing his backpack off, found the stimpaks with trembling hands and shoved one into MacCready, next to where it looked as if the worst injury was. 

‘MacCready, I need you to talk to me,’ he said, his voice as unsteady as his hands, but trying not to be. No reply. Another stimpak. 

MacCready coughed. 

_Oh, thank fuck._

‘MacCready, say something, let me know you’re here,’ Tristan said, managing to make himself sound steadier. He didn’t know if commandeering worked on the mercenary. Maybe it would just put him off. 

‘Some…thing,’ MacCready wheezed. 

Tristan laughed breathily. That was a good sign. A very good sign. 

‘Jesus Christ, I thought I had lost you,’ Tristan said with a small laugh, cupping MacCready’s face in his hand, quickly realizing that that was not really the level of closeness they had going on, and pulled it back, clearing his throat. ‘I’m going to give you another stimpak, and a Med-X.’

‘Ugh…’ MacCready moaned but seemed to comply with the suggestion. 

Tristan pushed the third stimpak into MacCready, less violently this time, and then rolled up the sleeve of his frayed duster. He usually used a leather strap with a buckle from his boots when he did this to himself, so he decided that would have to do now as well. Didn’t want to risk missing the vein. So, he pulled the strap out and wrapped it around MacCready’s arm. The mercenary didn’t look. 

‘Here we go,’ Tristan said quietly to let MacCready know the needle went in and then quickly pushed the substance into his body. He sighed in response but when Tristan removed the strap he started.

‘You done?’ he said with a frown.

‘Uh… Yes?’ 

‘I… didn’t even feel it,’ MacCready said, now frowning down at the little hole in his arm that Tristan was pushing hard at, since he didn’t have any other compression to put there. ‘I’m… I’m not good with needles.’

‘Oh,’ Tristan said, ‘I’m sorry, I… I didn’t-’

’Why are you this good at that?’ There was a hint of an accusation that Tristan understood and was happy he could dissuade. 

‘I was a nurse. In the army,’ Tristan said with a careful smile. 

The hard look fell off MacCready’s face. ‘Oh. That’s… That’s cool.’

Tristan laughed a little. ‘I don’t know about that. But I did put a lot of needles in veins, at least.’ 

‘I thought you learnt how to shoot people in the army, but you didn’t, then?’

Tristan bit his lower lip, rolling MacCready’s sleeve down absentmindedly. ‘I did. At first. Then I became a nurse instead.’

‘Right,’ MacCready said. It seemed as if he could tell that Tristan would rather not elaborate. 

‘Really glad you’re not dead,’ Tristan said with a sigh, sinking down next to MacCready. ‘It would’ve been extra sad if you died while we were setting up Tom’s stupid machines.’

MacCready scoffed. ‘Yeah. I would come back from the afterlife to haunt you forever for that, honestly.’

‘Would’ve been well deserved.’ 

They were sitting next to each other and Tristan noticed that MacCready was looking at him. He saw it in his peripheral vision. It felt awkward quite quickly, so he tried to shift around, in case it was just MacCready having gotten stuck in aimless staring. But he kept looking, so he turned to look back. The mercenary instantly threw down his eyes. _Did he honestly think I didn’t notice?_

‘Thank you for ah… saving my life,’ MacCready said and cumbersomely stood up, harshly using Tristan’s shoulder as support on his way. 

‘Yep, any day,’ Tristan replied, also standing up. ‘Or, at least until the stimpaks run out.’

//

_Entry 33:_

_Lots of stuff happened very quickly once things got rolling with Patriot. But now we need to give our synth ally there a day to sort things out. So I thought we could go follow up on a lead I found a while back on a raider – some valuable stuff in the vault-tec regional offices. I was a bit worried it would bring back memories, I dunno. But, hah. The irony. The staff have turned into ferals. _

_But hey – we found the valuable combat rifle. Should fetch a good price._

//

‘I… don’t get it. Nothing of what you just said makes sense.’

‘Like a brahmin. But slender. Only one head. A horse. Haven’t you seen a picture of one?’

‘I mean, I guess… In a comic maybe? I don’t remember. There’s a lot of weird animals in comics, I just figured most of them were made up,’ MacCready sighed. ‘And that still doesn’t explain what you were trying to say about the M.I.L.A.’

‘Getting up on the horse again. When you’ve fallen off.’

‘You’re just repeating what you’ve said five times but slower.’

‘We don’t want to associate Tom’s weird machines with you almost getting killed, so we’re here to associate it with-’

‘A train hanging out from a building. Yep. Safe.’ MacCready stood back, leaning against one of the intersections between two connected cars, showing that he would not take another step along the tilted train.

‘Being alive.’

‘I mean, that Protectron almost had the opposite of that covered in your case,’ MacCready muttered as Tristan carried the M.I.L.A over to a suitable vantage point.

He was right. That Protectron had been a son of a bitch, and its lasers had gotten Tristan pretty good in one arm. He felt the burn chafe against the broken fabric of his armor. 

Trying his best not to look down, he slid the contraption out onto a heap of planks that shot out from a door-less opening in the car’s side and then tied it to the planks as best he could. That would have to do. 

He quickly made it back to where the train was at least resting on a building, not hovering in the air. Moving to go through the doorway that MacCready was leaning in, he expected him to move as he came close, only realizing he expected that when the mercenary _didn’t_ move. His inability to stop his momentum made him have to squeeze past MacCready gracelessly, brushing against the rows of bullets on his legs and across his torso. He cleared his throat as he made it past and simply continued along the empty dusty rows of train seats. 

Something was up and he was unable to figure out what it was. Or maybe he was just in a place where he couldn’t take making any assumptions. 

//

They went up to restock in Sanctuary and to actually sleep at night, before Tristan would head back to the Institute again. Or so MacCready had thought. 

He had sat down with Mama Murphy, Cait and Preston around a fire and just had a pleasant time listening to them talking, occasionally bickering, when he saw Tristan heading for the bridge out of the settlement, hands in his pockets, hurried step. MacCready heaved himself up from the chair, far from adequately healed yet, plus that one hand still acting up a bit. Tristan had tried to tell him to not fire a gun after the business with the Gunners but that… What a joke. How did he see that going? 

‘Hey!’ he called after Tristan’s tense figure. He froze and spun around at MacCready’s voice. 

‘Oh, uh… Hey,’ Tristan replied awkwardly, not moving away from the bridge. 

‘You uh… You leaving?’ 

‘No, I…’ Tristan sighed sharply and even though it was dark, MacCready could see him grinding his teeth. ‘I can’t sleep here, I’m bunking over at the Red Rocket,’ he said flatly, after a while. 

‘Oh. Okay. Do you need… ah…’ He didn’t know how to finish.

‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll… I’ll see you here when I get back from the Institute, yeah?’ he said and turned, walking away over the bridge.

It wasn’t that MacCready didn’t trust Tristan. Not at all. He just didn’t trust Tristan’s judgement of himself. 

He’d check on him later. Tristan wouldn’t even notice. 

//

Tristan sighed as his chaotic thoughts finally landed on Voss, having tried to come up with something else to focus on for this. He tried Danse, quickly, and just as quickly found that that was impossible. There was nothing left there but a dull sadness. 

He wouldn’t admit it, but there had been someone else trying to get in there even before Danse, but it didn’t feel right, like a breach of trust. 

_So here we are, Voss_, he thought. _I know you’d_ love _the idea of me thinking about you while jerking off over two hundred years after you’re dead._

Voss was effective. He had been very little more than that. All desire and want and body. He thought of how Voss insisted on crawling into his bunk when there were people around, preferably also awake. How he ducked under Tristan’s covers and kept an uneven, unpredictable rhythm to try and make Tristan let sounds slip. Tristan had always been terrible at being quiet during sex and Voss seemed to take an all but sadistic pleasure in it. He thought of Voss’ tongue and his mouth and his hands moving up and down always on the border of too rough, even for Tristan. Of how he slinked into Tristan’s tent and climbed on top of him, pushing Tristan inside himself without any lube; hissing, enjoying the pain, and seeing that Tristan enjoyed it too. His nails clawing into Tristan’s chest, bruising nipples; whimpering and cursing as he came. His hands in his hair, holding, tearing, hurting. 

Tristan bit the side of his hand as he came with a strained moan, muscles cramping and shaking. 

It took him a while to get his breath back, forcing air through his nose, listening to make sure nothing had heard him and approached. He sat up, staring out through the doorway, over into the other room, towards the shadows of the rusted robotic gas-station arms barely visible in the night gloom. He could’ve sworn he saw something just now, by the glassless windows, but he stared in the direction for a good half minute, and he saw or heard absolutely nothing. 

He slumped back against the thin little mattress on the ground and pulled the mildew-smelling sleeping bag over himself. A last intrusive thought of wanting someone who was not here to curl up against tried to rush over him, but he shoved it back, sinking into a heavy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos gais :3


	7. Flickers

_Entry 34:_

_Holy hell I really thought I was fucked for a while there… Shaun started talking about the railroad and I thought it was the start of an intervention. But… he seems unaware. He calls them, well /us/, misguided. The irony. _

_We need to strike fast. It’s only a matter of time before all this goes to shit._

_//_

_Entry 35:_

_Well. At least now I know. I was just an experiment. Shaun despises everything that humanity has survived out here. For all his claims of synths not being human… he’s less humane than Danse and Nick on their worst days. _

_Jesus Christ, Shaun. I can’t believe it’s come to this._

//

‘To that end, I am naming my father as my successor’

//

‘I had… no idea… You’re dying?’

//

‘Breathtaking. Now can we get a move on before the Brotherhood decides they want to use us for target practice again?’

//

_Dust. Lights. Maybe it’s the sun. It is the sun? Is it a headlight? A headlamp? I’m seeing yellow… There’s gunfire. Help. I’m dying. No, he’s dying. I should care. Nothing is real anymore. Dust. There’s a light. Someone’s shooting. Where am I?_

//

‘Where are we?’ Tristan felt as if his throat was lined with razors. His voice was hoarse, dry. His head was pounding. 

‘Please drink.’ It was MacCready’s voice. 

Cold metal met Tristan’s lips and he feebly grabbed it, held on to it, tilted it. Water poured down along his sore throat. A bit on the sides of his mouth. He looked at his hand. it looked like someone else’s. _Not this again_. 

He realized he was leaning against MacCready’s scrawny chest, felt the ridges of his ribs against his temple, the fabric of his shirt against his skin, and that MacCready had one arm wrapped around Tristan’s shoulder. The other one rested on his rifle, which lay next to the mercenary’s leg. 

They were on the ground. In a very run-down lobby of some kind. No one else was here, what Tristan could hear. He heard MacCready’s heart beat steadily. He couldn’t remember anything after the horde of Brotherhood soldiers swarming into the lobby of Mass Fusion. _Damnit_.

‘What… what happened? After Mass Fusion? Are we still there?’ His voice sounded as if it came from far away. _Snap out of it for god’s sake._

‘I, ah… well, you seemed okay, or well, you know, as okay as one is in a fight like that. But then you uh… You got this look in your eyes, I dunno. Like you were really scared, and you started to look around and uh… shooting in the wrong directions. I had to, um, get the gun out of your hands. You’re… You’re very strong, you know that?’ He patted Tristan a little on the arm. ‘But then you just gave up and started… crying a lot, and I dragged you out of there. Figured they could sort that out themselves. Kill each other for all I care. We’re one building over, I guess. But the shooting stopped a while ago.’

Tristan sighed. He should probably sit up, get out of MacCready’s arm, but the thought paralyzed him. This was by no means new, but it was never easy. There was a nagging, aimless terror still echoing in the back of his mind. Instantly, he thought he would start crying again, so he tried to stop it by reaching for another can of water and drinking it. It helped, for now. 

‘This is why I became a nurse,’ Tristan whispered into the quiet, damp air of the lobby. ‘Not that it was less frightening. The things you see in an infirmary are… But… I could manage that fear. I knew I was helping. Shooting people because someone says you should is… not helping.’ He felt a tear roll down his cheek and fell silent. ‘Damn it,’ he hissed and sat up, finally, even though it stirred the fear, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

‘Nah,’ MacCready said softly, and Tristan realized he still kept his arm around him. ‘_I’m_ sorry. That you had to go through that.’ He gave Tristan’s shoulder a little squeeze, which caused him to lean in towards MacCready out of sheer gratefulness. He didn’t end up back against his chest, but rather on his shoulder, face close to his neck. 

He smelled like gunpowder and cigarettes. Probably of sweat, but Tristan couldn’t tell. He didn’t know if this was okay, so he kept still, waiting for a sign in MacCready’s body language. It came in the shape of a small gesture. He bent his arm, making his hand land on Tristan’s neck. The hand shrugged back a little on impact, almost as if static had hit it, but then he carefully placed it back, letting it rest on a collarbone. Tristan couldn’t help but release a heavy sigh against MacCready’s neck at it. It made MacCready’s fingers less scared, it seemed; he let them more fully meet Tristan’s skin, tracing it slowly, hesitantly, along the tendons in his neck. A sharp sound as MacCready’s calloused fingertips brushed over Tristan’s stubble.

Tristan felt chills dancing all over his body at the touch. Such a small thing that drew such a big response. He flickered between wanting to stay in this electric tension forever, and just pushing MacCready over instantly, but he didn’t know if that was the intention of this touch. Maybe it was friendly. He was so hard to read. He hadn’t made a single sign in this direction, but then again, neither had Tristan, though that was more because of him forcing himself not to. 

He almost leaned in to kiss MacCready’s neck just because he could feel the heat it emitted when being this close, but he knew he had to check in - he had to look him in the eyes.

He reluctantly leaned back, into the hand, making the fingers rest around, more than against, his neck. A good sign, Tristan thought, that he didn’t remove it. There was a flush on MacCready’s face, and he quickly threw down his eyes when Tristan sought them, as he had done earlier. But there was a small smile on his lips. It was a tense smile; it looked as if he was trying to hide it without succeeding. 

‘Can I kiss you?’ Tristan simply said.

MacCready jumped, his face becoming a distinctly deeper shade of red, but he did look straight at Tristan now at least. Many thoughts and feelings seemed to ripple over the mercenary’s face in quick succession, starting somewhere at shock to then land in nerves, but he was still smiling. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly. 

Tristan leaned into him, parting his lips but stopping before touching MacCready’s, feeling his breath on his own, hearing his own breathing become uneven at it. He started out softly, making sure there was space for MacCready to stop if he wanted, but it was the mercenary who deepened it first, tongue meeting tongue, and grabbed the back of Tristan’s neck firmer. Tristan brushed the hat off MacCready and grabbed his thick hair with both hands, at which MacCready moaned into Tristan’s mouth, leaning back to breathe. 

Tristan took the opportunity to go for MacCready’s neck. There was dried blood and dirt, and he should probably feel disgusted, but it had the completely opposite effect, as it always had. Without thinking, he bit down, but released quickly, realizing that might be pushing it, since MacCready tensed up at it. 

‘Sorry,’ Tristan whispered in his ear, resuming the kissing on MacCready’s ear lobe instead, and then back to his mouth. ‘Sorry.’  
‘It’s fine,’ MacCready whispered back, between kisses. But then he leaned back, hands on Tristan’s shoulders, holding him at a bit of a distance. Tristan released MacCready’s hair and let his hands fall down in his lap.

‘I, uh…’ MacCready started, staring down at Tristan’s hands. ‘I’ve never ah… _been_ with a guy before.’ He looked up at Tristan. ‘Not that I haven’t… wanted, or anything, it’s just… It’s not been… Lucy was sort of my first real thing, and before and after that it’s been just… Well. No guys.’ He grunted disapprovingly at himself, also letting his hands drop into his lap. ‘Sorry. That’s not… the most fun thing to hear, I guess.’

‘What?’ slipped Tristan and he cursed silently at his bad impulse control. ‘I mean, no, that’s not… I mean,_I_ don’t mind that. At all. But–’ he scratched his scalp a few times, harshly, ‘I don’t know how good of a first guy I am.’ He screwed up his eyes and threw up his hands. ‘I mean, not that I’m– Not that’s I’m assuming you had the intention of–’

‘Oh, I have the intention of.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Tristan felt his own face heat up at the smile MacCready was giving him.

‘What’s so bad about you being a first, then? You got four dicks?’ Macready scooted a little towards Tristan again, peering at him. 

‘No, I…’ He didn’t really know what he had meant. If he knew he had to be attentive during sex, he was, gladly. ‘Well, now I feel inadequate,’ he said with a laugh, MacCready’s joke having landed with a bit of a delay. 

‘Just, ah–’ he brought his hand up to grab MacCready’s face, pulling it towards him without resistance. ‘You let me know as soon as something’s not what you wanna do, okay?’

Macready nodded, eagerly accepting Tristan’s kiss and following along as the bigger man pushed him down on his back on the assortment of mattresses around them. 

A pointy hipbone grinded against Tristan’s thigh as he pressed himself down against MacCready. Tristan shook his head at himself as he felt how hard he already was. _Ridiculous._ But he also thought there was no reason to get too elaborate if this was MacCready’s first time. He gently pressed his hips against MacCready’s, noting he wasn’t alone in the excitement. The motion made the mercenary moan into Tristan’s ear, which caused him to helplessly press down harder against him. 

MacCready reached up to unzip Tristan’s body armor, the now fairly battered, black courser one. Tristan squirmed out of it, baring his tank top – he tried to find black ones if he could now, the white ones turned sad so quickly – and skin that MacCready almost reverently traced with his fingers. Tristan scoffed a little with a smile down at the mercenary, pulled him up to get him out of his duster and then let him down on his back again. His army green, thick, long-sleeved shirt underneath was stained and threadbare in places. Tristan reached his hands underneath it, following the slim body, causing a slight tremble in MacCready. He was more sinewy than plain thin, and his skin was pale and freckled as Tristan slid the shirt off of him. He leaned down to kiss MacCready’s chest, the few hairs on it tickling his face, his teeth carefully grazing a soft nipple, causing the mercenary to suck his teeth and push his hips harder up against Tristan. 

With their mouths closely connected, Tristan managed to get his own top off and both their pants unbuckled and pushed down, and he grabbed their cocks with one hand. He growled against MacCready’s neck as he started to move his hand up and down, feeling MacCready’s nails digging into the skin of his neck and arm. Thankfully to Tristan, it seemed MacCready would last as long as himself – that is, not long at all. His dick twitched under Tristan’s hand, leaking precum over them both. His grip on Tristan’s neck became tighter, harsher. Tristan doubted it was intentional, only a reaction to his oncoming climax, but damn, did it do it for him. 

MacCready’s uneven nails pierced skin and Tristan switched up the speed of his hand the last notch he needed himself, and it proved to be the equal amount of a last push for MacCready. 

The mercenary came first, clinging onto Tristan with teeth and nails, and Tristan followed quickly after, loudly gasping in MacCready’s cigarette-smelling hair. 

When he got a bit of his breath back, Tristan sunk down on top of the man underneath him, not caring about the mess he landed in. MacCready breathed in little voiced sighs that turned into a strikingly carefree chuckle after a while. Tristan responded with a deeper, duller, but still content, chuckle of his own. 

‘I _am_ going to admit…’ MacCready said, spinning some of Tristan’s hair around a finger, ‘Not exactly where I was expecting this day to go.’

Tristan rolled over on his back next to MacCready with a grunt. ‘Likewise.’

He tried very, very hard to ignore the emptiness rumbling at the back of his mind, and its tiny little sparks of fear that wanted to make him cry again. It almost worked. 

//

Suddenly, the rain of bullets quieted down. Tristan could hear them shouting something to each other. He tried to get his breath back; he had darted from cover to cover, every one of them getting shattered by the Knight in power armor’s minigun. 

‘They’re not raiders, Scribe!’ It was the Knight’s voice, through the filter of her helmet. ‘I know who that is,’ she continued, and Tristan heard she was yelling it in his and MacCready’s general direction. _ Shit. _

Tristan saw MacCready sharply flinch at the Knight’s words and stare over at Tristan with a frown and a slightly open mouth. Tristan didn’t know what face to make; he just cursed under his breath, waiting for whatever this brigade was going to do. 

‘Why don’t you come out here and face your punishment, ’ It stung. Not because of the lost rank, obviously, but because of the memories it stirred. Of Danse; of Tristan’s self-serving lies. 

MacCready was a good thirty feet away, but Tristan could still here him exclaim something at the Knight’s words. Tristan guessed it was “what?!”

Tristan swallowed, shook his head and peered up over the cement barricade he was hunching behind, rifle first. He aimed for the glass of the knight’s helmet. He didn’t miss. 

The helmet spun around in place; the Knight bent over to get it off – before its motion seriously hurt her, Tristan suspected. She stood back up; a furious baring of teeth visible through a considerable stream of blood running from her eyebrow. 

Another shot. It came from Tristan’s left. With an unsettling gurgle, the Knight’s throat was pierced by a bullet. Tristan heard MacCready reload. One more. The Knight froze and fell backwards, a bullet square between her eyes. 

Terror was evident on the Scribe’s face. He was huddling behind an inadequate cover – a brick wall more powdery plaster than support. Even at this distance, Tristan could see the pistol shaking in his hands. He knew he would have to talk to MacCready after this. He would have to confront this lie, he would have to apologize, he would have to grovel and… 

He braced against the cement cover and quickly jumped over it, darting towards the Scribe. He didn’t have to bother; he could’ve run in a straight line, because the Scribe didn’t fire a shot, just backed away, stumbling over himself. When Tristan was a foot away, the Scribe dropped his weapon and just crawled backwards until a wall stopped him. Tristan hunched down, one foot each side of the trembling man, staring into his face, close enough for his breath to meet skin, looking for something else than fear. Nothing. 

‘You’re a menace. You’re as bad as the Institute. You ruin this place.’ He pulled his 10mm pistol from his belt and placed it against the jawline of the Scribe, who closed his eyes at it, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks and graying stubble. ‘Gonna put this one down as community service,’ Tristan hissed and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening. The bang shut out the squelching of the various matters coloring the wall behind what was left of the Scribe’s head. 

He turned around. He knew MacCready was standing behind him. The mercenary looked shocked; sniper rifle hanging ineffectively in his grip, eyes darting from Tristan to the mess next to him. Then he cleared his throat and gripped his weapon twitchily, and it clattered in response to the young man’s motion. 

‘Was that… necessary?’ he said quietly. 

‘Yes,’ Tristan said, marching out of the dilapidated building, plaster and mortar crunching beneath his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ he continued as MacCready seemed frozen to the spot. The mercenary turned towards him. 

‘Get… _what_ over with?’ he said. It sounded genuine. Tristan grunted.

__

‘Just… Just come,’ Tristan said. He felt fidgety, his left hand trembled and he put it in his pocket. ‘I need to make sure I won’t lie by convenient accident in the future.’

__

//

__

Tristan, annoyed, noticed how he didn’t feel less fidgety now. He kept tearing at one of the leather straps on his boots. It was starting to threaten to blister his skin if he didn’t stop. Right now, he felt as if he would throw something if he stopped, though. 

__

He had told MacCready most things. That he joined the Brotherhood to get help with the teleportation device. That they seemed like the best choice. He told him about Shaun. About Nora. He told him that a Paladin in the Brotherhood turned into a friend, and that he also turned out to be a synth, which complicated things, to put it mildly. He told him that he worked undercover for the railroad. 

__

And there were so many things he didn’t tell him. That he had intended to say, to come clean, for himself if nothing else. And here he was, realizing that he couldn’t. Was he so desperate for company he just thought that everyone he met would accept him for everything he was? Did he even know what that meant? What he was? 

__

He had always thought he had been able to keep himself at a certain level of destructive, to fight off the _real_ bad. But now, in company where he couldn’t manage the low-key destructiveness he needed, everything shifted; everything got unstable. He was really, really bad unstable. 

__

It didn’t help that MacCready hadn’t said anything for a good minute. He was poking a stick into the fire he had absentmindedly put together while Tristan talked. 

__

‘I never got a chance to properly thank you for helping me take out Winlock and Barnes,’ MacCready suddenly cut the silence with. Tristan’s furious pulling of his boot strap stopped abruptly. It was so far from what he had expected to hear that he couldn’t think of anything to say. Even his badly controlled interjections at times like these seemed to be stunned. ‘You stuck your neck out for me and I don’t forget shi- Er, I mean… things like that.’

__

Tristan frowned. _Guess we’re changing the subject. Not going to complain._ ‘Why… Why do you keep doing that? Stopping yourself from cursing again?’ Tristan gave up the boot strap in favor of lighting a cigarette. 

__

‘Yeah…’ MacCready said, straightening up a little with a small smile. ‘I figured you’d ask about it sooner or later. It’s not about you, or anything, it’s about a promise I made.’ He was looking into the fire again.

__

‘When I left the Capital Wasteland, I didn’t just leave Little Lamplight behind… I left my family behind.’

__

Tristan heard his lips part. _Maybe… we’re not changing the subject, then._

__

‘Had a beautiful wife, Lucy, and…’ He sighed. ‘And a son we named Duncan. He’s the one I made my promise to. A promise to clean up my act and to uh… Be a better person.’ A frowned deepened between MacCready’s eyebrows as he said the last thing. 

__

Tristan thought back the half hour before. Saw the head of the Scribe exploding. Thought of how MacCready, minus the incident with Winlock, always kept a very, very good distance to everyone who got in his way and had to be shot. 

__

‘I guess that sounds pretty stupid coming from a guy who shoots people for a living,’ MacCready said into the fire, dejected. 

__

A scoff fell over Tristan’s lips. He didn’t know where to start with his objections, and with his surprise. So he didn’t. ‘You… You must have had a good reason to leave them behind.’

__

‘That’s what I keep telling myself. My son… My son is sick,’ MacCready said and his words came at a quicker pace, ‘I– I don’t know what’s wrong with him. One day, he’s paying out in the fields behind our farm, the next… he took a fever and these… blue boils popped up all over his body. Last I saw he was almost too weak to walk. I didn’t dare ask him to come with me.’ He paused, short of breath from the obvious stress the subject stirred in him. He continued in a quieter voice. ‘Honestly, I… don’t know how much longer he’s going to last.’

__

‘There must be something we can do,’ Tristan said, much louder, hearing how he couldn’t keep a streak of desperation out of his voice. 

__

MacCready looked up at him, warm light of the fire reflecting in his bright eyes. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ He smiled. 

__

‘A few months before we met, I bumped into a guy named Sinclair who claimed his buddy caught some kind of disease. I thought he was wasting my time until he said his partner broke out in blue boils. They dug up information about a cure in a place called Med-Tek Research. They even managed to grab the building’s lockdown security codes.’ The smile disappeared off his face, and the frown was back. ‘Unfortunately, Sinclair’s buddy died before they were able to break into the facility.’ He looked back up at Tristan with pleading eyes. ‘I mean… there’s no way that’s a coincidence, right? Med-Tek _has_ to be the place.’

__

‘If there’s a cure, we’ll find it, okay?’ Tristan said, leaning a bit towards MacCready. Had he been closer, he would’ve put his hand on his arm. 

__

‘Thanks, partner,’ MacCready said with a warm smile. ‘I’ll put Med-Tek Research on your map,’ he continued, motioning for Tristan to give him his Pip-Boy. 

__

When he reached it back over, having cursed a little over the interfaced but also refused help from Tristan, he had a more concerned look on his face again. 

__

‘No one’s ever done something like this for me before,’ he said. 

__

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ Tristan said. He could think of myriad reasons. So, he wanted to hear the one MacCready had.

__

MacCready looked up at him with a confused look. ‘I… Well, I didn’t know you. Didn’t trust you. Not fully. I wanted to see if I should stick around and ask for help or try it on my own again.’

__

Tristan nodded. It made sense, of course. Him feeling hurt by it was both illogical and unfair. He was starting to realize that he could probably put “petty” on the pile of unflattering characteristics he possessed. 

__

‘So, you’ve been there before, then?’ Tristan said, trying to busy his hands with a can of purified water and another cigarette at the same time. 

__

‘Yeah… It’s uhm… _crawling_ with ferals,’ he said, scratching his scalp. 

__

‘Gotcha. Not a problem,’ Tristan said with a confirming nod.

__

They fell silent. It was as if firesides had become their queue for having conversations. This had been a big one. Tristan still had trouble coping with that MacCready – this scrawny kid – had a child. And a… _Wait…_

__

‘Okay, sorry, this was a bit of a delay on my part – you have a _wife_?’ 

__

MacCready looked up at Tristan, but then threw down his eyes again, though not ashamed – not caught looking when he didn’t mean to – something else. 

__

‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Ferals… tore her apart in front of us. Me and Duncan barely got away.’

__

‘I… Fucking hell. I’m so sorry.’ It wasn’t enough, but nothing could be. _So, we both lost a wife, huh… If only my son was just ill and not an emotionless megalomaniac._ He screwed his eyes shut, snorting at his thought. _Nope. Not going there._

__

‘Yeah, well…’ MacCready whispered, resting his cheek on his bent knees. 

__

Silence fell again, but it was less tense. MacCready seemed miles away. 

__

Tristan looked at him carefully through the sputtering flames of their fire. A lingering pat here and there had passed between them since their thing after Mass Fusion. Tristan couldn’t tell how he felt, it was as if his mind couldn’t make itself up at all. Sometimes he felt a warm, solid camaraderie towards the young mercenary, and the occasional pat on the back was welcome in a friendly, supportive way. Sometimes, a touch from him was like electricity, going straight for Tristan’s bloodstream, pumping it all away from his head and down between his legs. He sometimes thought it had very little to do with MacCready, it was just Tristan, it was just that sometimes, touches did that to him. It was just him and his body that were all over the place. Perhaps it was the same for the both of them.

__

He was thankful that he was in enough of a right mind to know that this was _not_ the time to find out what a touch could mean right now.

__


	8. Presence

‘We did it…. Holy crap, we _actually did it!_ We just gave Duncan a fighting chance to live.’ MacCready’s voice was thick with emotion as he was staring down at the blue metal container in Tristan’s hand. ‘I… I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to pay you back for this… I owe you _big_ time.’

‘For the… This isn’t a business contract,’ Tristan said, trying his best not to sound annoyed, even though MacCready’s insistence on calling everything he did a debt was starting to get on his nerves. Even though he got it. Perhaps _because_ he got it.

‘Yeah… Yeah, I know, you keep telling me.’ MacCready said, but didn’t take the vial, so Tristan just stood with the thing in his hand, held out between them. ‘I’m… just used to people taking, rather than giving. Maybe one day I’ll realize that you’re different.’ He cleared his throat, but didn’t let the words linger, nor did he look Tristan in the eye while he said them.’

‘We need to get it to Daisy, in Goodneighbor,’ he continued, quicker, ‘She’s the only one I trust to get this to Duncan on time. This is the last favor I’m going to ask, I promise.’

‘You don’t need to…’ Tristan sighed. He was getting nowhere on this topic, it seemed, so instead he just pushed the vial in MacCready’s direction, but he still didn’t take it. 

‘My hands are shaking,’ he said, ‘Could you…’

Tristan shrugged, trying to seem as if he was totally fine carrying something that literally was the life or death of MacCready’s son. He was losing his patience and he didn’t like it. It wasn’t MacCready’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just how it was. He was cranky. He had a headache. He was fed up with trying to _seem_ a bunch of shit he didn’t _feel_ and he barely knew what he meant by thinking that. 

‘I’m thinking Goodneighbor will have to be a place for a celebratory toast,’ he said with a vague smile, putting the vial in one of his cap-containers. 

MacCready grinned at him and gave him a decisive nod. ‘Let’s get the heck outta here.’

//

It was funny to Tristan, how The Third Rail actually felt like a nightclub, despite its crammed space and lack of colored lights and night-club darkness. Like an echo. Someone had remembered and spread the word over two hundred years. And now, this was what a nightclub was, he supposed. 

Some nights when he’d stepped in here, it was more like a sullen, dodgy bar. People were quiet, huddled around the low tables, or sat staring into the wall behind the Mr Handy at the bar, far away in some memory. Sometimes, violence hung in the air like bad weather; anyone was ready to throw a punch at a moment’s notice. 

Tonight, spirits were high. People were dancing some weird approximation of lindy hop, in pairs, or by themselves, or in groups. Ghouls and soft-skins, drifters and triggermen, all moving as one chaotic mass in front of Magnolia. Tables had been shoved to make room. 

Tristan had to smile at the scene. MacCready didn’t seem to share in that need; he looked more just stunned. Tristan nudged him with his elbow and nodded towards the bar. MacCready nodded once in response and followed. 

They sat down at the end of the counter, where the noise was loud, but you could talk, albeit at a volume louder than normal. Whitechapel Charlie whirred over to them and his voice was barely audible over the cheering of the crowd. Tristan simply leaned over to him and said, ‘Two beers. And two shots of whiskey.’ The Mr. Handy’s arms spun around and stretched out over the cluttered shelves behind it and produced what was asked for. 

‘There you go,’ Charlie said, and Tristan really wondered if he knew what accent he was trying to mimic. Then again; programming from before the war. _Whatever_. He raised the tumbler of whiskey towards MacCready, who did the same back. They knocked it back and Tristan hummed to himself at the feeling. He’d been shooting stuff for too long. He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t, as MacCready might have put it, slept with one eye open. Which was ironic, seeing as this was the place MacCready had said that about. 

Tristan knew he didn’t have any right to the thought, but something about coming to Goodneighbor was starting to feel… almost homely. He often noticed a smile on his lips as he walked through the metal door to this place. He had chatted a bit with Daisy about the time before the war – maybe that was it. He had met someone who _knew_. It really helped, because when things got bad, he was always ready to believe he had made everything up. The threat of the Institute was still looming – very much so – but sometimes, he felt as if his life before just had to be–.

‘It feels unreal,’ MacCready said. Magnolia had started a slower song, and it allowed for conversation at a bit more normal volume, mostly because the crowd in front of her wasn’t shouting anymore. ‘I can’t believe we did it. I still can’t.’ MacCready laughed a little, starting down into his beer bottle, shaking his head in disbelief. 

‘I’m so happy for you,’ Tristan said. He meant it, and he hoped he managed to make it sound like it. MacCready gave him a quick glance and a warm smile. It seemed to have come through. 

Tristan’s beer was already finished, and he absentmindedly motioned to Charlie for one more, putting the caps he owed for it on the counter. He noticed that MacCready was anywhere but at the same pace. A buzz had already placed itself at the back of Tristan’s head, and he felt full of energy in a way he really couldn’t remember feeling since stumbling out into the Commonwealth. He could feel MacCready’s eyes on him, but they were not exactly… approving. They seemed more cautious; studying him. 

‘Hey,’ the mercenary said with a sigh. ‘I’m not… I mean, I feel as if I _should_ be in the same mood as you seem to be in. But I think I need to clear my head for a bit. It’s just been… a lot, this day.’ He slid off the bar stool. 

Tristan wondered if he should insist on coming with him, if he should be worried. He couldn’t navigate. His need for… _something_ was like static in his head. So, he just looked at MacCready. 

‘I’ll come back. You… join the dancers or something so I can laugh at you when I do,’ MacCready continued and started to walk towards the stairs. Tristan gave him a small smile, but he could feel that it looked as unsure of the situation as he felt. But he also knew that he and MacCready were at such different intensities right now that he would be terrible company for him. He watched the young man go, skipping up the stairs, looking as if he couldn’t wait to be out of this place. 

‘Well, well, look who it is.’

Tristan snapped out of him being very close to going after MacCready after all, at the sound of a gravelly voice next to him. 

Emerging from the “VIP”-area came a ghoul in a red, tattered robe and a very distinct three-point hat. It was a get-up that shouldn’t suit anyone, but Tristan could not argue one bit with how much it suited this man. He recognized him instantly – Hancock, the mayor of Goodneighbor. The man who had introduced himself by stabbing someone multiple times right in front of Tristan. It was a very good way to make an impression. 

‘I… you remember me?’ Tristan said. It sounded ridiculous. He sounded ridiculous. He sounded as if he was very happy that the mayor remembered him. 

‘Anyone who walks into my town and doesn’t take shit is worth remembering,’ Hancock said, finishing the sentence by taking the last drag of a crooked cigarette that he stubbed out in an ashtray on the bar. ‘Glad to see you’ve made our little town a place you come back to.’

Tristan tried to seem relaxed, but he managed more to slump on his chair. He took a long draft of his beer, or he tried to, noticing how this one was finished as well. But he pretended to take a long draft, at least. He didn’t think he was very convincing. Hancock lifted the place where the remains of an eyebrow was. 

‘It’s– ah,’ Tristan started and got distracted by Hancock ordering something from Charlie, getting two new tumblers of what Tristan assumed was more whiskey, and slid one of them over to Tristan. ‘I like it here,’ he said, grabbing the tumbler and holding it between his knees with both hands.

_Wow. Keep sounding like an idiot. You’re doing great._

‘Makes me proud to hear, brother,’ Hancock said, quietly, leaning close. Then he clinked his glass against Tristan’s, who didn’t manage to react fast enough to return the gesture, before giving him a wink and a nod and walked off towards a crowd of people that greeted him as if he came back from a war. 

Tristan spun around on the bar stool. Charlie put a beer in front of him, which Tristan was too incapacitated by mortification to nod gratefully for. But he took it and drank half of it in one go before sinking down with his nails buried deep in his scalp. He sighed through his nose.

‘You, ah… Having a moment there, smooth-skin?’ It was another gravelly voice, but not Hancock’s. Tristan started up from his slumped, defeated position. It was the Watch. He was wearing the same beige, well-fitted, dusty suit as he had the previous times Tristan had run into him. A smoke-grey trilby hat rested on his bald, scarred head and threw shade over his dark, milky eyes. He was holding his hand out towards Tristan. ‘We never got properly introduced. I’m Kit.’

Tristan took his hand and shook it, again grateful for distraction. Kit held onto Tristan’s hand, stroking it lazily with his radiation-scarred fingers, and leaned in towards him. Hairs stood up along Tristan’s whole arm at it, the grip on his hand becoming firmer.

‘Tri...stan,’ he mumbled breathily. It seemed to be an effect of the closeness of this ghoul. Kit kept his head at a self-secure incline, constantly looking a little down at Tristan. Tristan knew what that _could_ indicate, and his intoxicated, adrenaline-fueled mind felt as if it had a godamn _right_ to think about it. 

Kit slowly let go of Tristan’s hand and instead stood leaning against the bar, very close to him, at an angle where he could whisper in Tristan’s ear. ‘So… You’re celebrating?’

‘I’m trying, yes,’ Tristan said, glad to hear that he could produce a normal tone of voice; that he wasn’t all lost to uneven breathing and racing heartbeat just yet. He knocked back the whiskey he had forgotten rested between his tense hands. 

‘Would it be easier to try that with some company? Perhaps somewhere… else?’ 

Kit could probably tell, Tristan figured, that he didn’t _have_ to play this game. He could’ve told Tristan to leave with him and he’d done it. But this was part of it. And he was starting to think that this was part of a larger game. He hoped he was right. 

Tristan nodded. ‘I think it would, yes.’ Kit was trailing his underarm underneath the edge of the bar. Tristan clenched his jaw. 

‘And – and this is just a suggestion, no offense taken if it’s not your thing,’ Kit continued. Tristan felt as if all other noise of the place was muffled, all he could focus on was the slow, steady breathing meeting his ear. People were probably looking. He didn’t care. 

‘If I have… another friend who would like to join us, what would you say to that, Tristan?’ Kit ended the question with a quick, soft bite on Tristan’s earlobe. It was very hard for him to still keep his mouth shut at it. 

‘That would– be nice,’ Tristan whispered quickly but unevenly. 

Kit leaned back with a grin on his lip-less face. It sent a shiver down Tristan’s back. 

‘Let’s go then, lover boy. I’m staying in a room in the state house. Privileges of working for the mayor,’ Kit said with a wink and motioned for Tristan to follow. 

Tristan didn’t know how Kit managed to say such corny things, do such predictable things, and still be so mind-shatteringly effective. He made sure he didn’t look any of the other patrons in the eye as he followed the ghoul out, even though he could definitely notice a lot of people following them with looks. He was sure he even heard someone whistle. He was too drunk to feel embarrassed, and yet not drunk enough to have lost sensation _anywhere_. His whole skin felt tingly. He was light-headed. 

The night-air of the brief walk outside was refreshing, exhilarating, smelt like fire and gun powder. 

The old state house was quiet compared to the street. The building creaked independently, but also because, of their feet on the floorboards. Voices could be heard somewhere above them. The guard by the door – another ghoul in a suit as simultaneously tattered and well-fitted as Kit’s - nodded at Kit as they passed. She eyed Tristan a little but refrained from giving him the knowing look he expected. 

Kit lead them down the stairs running in the middle of the building, to the lower floor where the silence was even more pronounced, and in among a winding layout of dark rooms, until they ended up in a room dimly lit with gas lamps. The orange glow was inviting, despite the grime and dirt of the walls and floor. There was broken furniture along the walls, but an intact and pretty well-kempt double bed dominated the place. 

As Tristan stepped over the threshold, he saw a man with stubble and shoulder-length blonde hair stand up from sitting by a table in a corner. Shadows from the lamps danced across him and the rest of the room. He looked ready to leave, but then Kit raised a hand towards him. 

‘You owe me fifty caps,’ Kit said, and the man froze in his step, relaxed, and gave both Kit and Tristan a small grin.

‘No way,’ he said in a deep voice, hoarse from cigarettes. 

‘This is Tristan', Kit continued. 

The other man took off his coat and threw it on the chair he had been sitting on, and lit a cigarette, eyeing Tristan, before reaching out a hand, like Kit had done earlier. ‘Dan.’ He didn’t hold onto Tristan’s hand, instead he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. The red gleam of the cigarette lit up his face in the gloom. 

‘So,’ Kit said, sitting against a table next to Tristan, who simply stood in the room, head buzzing, anticipation making it spin. 

He needed to figure out if he could trust them. Everything he had seen could’ve been threatening, but there was something in both of their postures – they weren’t ready to jump at any second. They seemed relaxed; Dan’s smile was a grin, but not a malicious one. 

‘You say “red” we stop, no questions asked, alright?’ Kit finished.

Tristan scoffed. So, he had been right. He almost had to reach out and lean against the table Kit sat on to counter the light-headedness. ‘Sounds good,’ he said.

‘You good to throw a chem or two in the mix?’ It was Dan’s voice. 

‘I’m game,’ Tristan said. He heard Dan hum approvingly in return. 

‘Good,’ Kit said, loudly pulling the table he was sitting against to stand next to Dan, and resumed his leaning against it, looking straight at Tristan. He was a few feet away from Kit and Dan now, underneath a hanging lamp in the ceiling. Kit nodded towards Tristan. ‘Strip.’

Tristan swallowed. Then he unzipped the front of the armor; the sound cut through the silence loudly. He slid it off his arms and let it rest around his waist while he bent down to unstrap his boots and kicked them off into a corner. 

‘Eager, isn’t he,’ Kit mumbled. Tristan could hear the smile on his lips. 

He exhaled, trying to still his trembling fingers. He didn’t know if it was nerves or excitement. Probably both. He let the armor fall to the floor and stepped out of it. His boxers had once been fitted, but they hung loosely on him, both due to him losing weight and them being washed to complete loss of elasticity. His dick had firmly placed itself up against his stomach already. 

‘Well, don’t stop,’ Kit said as Tristan paused, looking over at the two dressed men. 

Nodding, he pulled the tank off, his skin prickling in the dusty air. A good amount of fairly new scars cut across his chest, some better healed than others. He brushed his palm over them on his way down to the lining of his underwear. Lifting them over his hard-on, they fell to the floor with a little sigh. 

He heard the sizzling of Dan’s cigarette as he took a last draft and put it out behind him before walking up to Tristan. He was even taller than Kit and had no problem looking down on Tristan where he now stood, close to his face, breathing cigarette-smell over Tristan’s skin. Tristan couldn’t help closing his eyes at the sensation, to which Dan scoffed. He heard him undo his belt, and his pants. 

‘On your knees,’ he said, which he emphasized with a push on Tristan’s shoulder, and a hand that stayed there as Tristan sunk to his knees, face to face with Dan’s… _impressive_ dick. 

Tristan did his best; it had been a while; his jaw wasn’t used to it. He made up for it with eagerness, something that increased as he heard Dan grunt and felt his hand tighten in his hair. Dan pushed his hips towards Tristan, but he did it deftly, almost imperceptibly gauging Tristan’s limit, while still making sure Tristan always felt just slightly on the edge of losing control. Eventually, he managed to push just far enough to cut off Tristan’s air supply for a few seconds and then released him, causing him to sink down gasping on the floor. 

He caught of glimpse of Kit – now shirtless, scarred pink skin flickering past – as he went to kneel behind Tristan. Tristan raised up on his knees again, but Kit pushed him down on all fours, head down onto Dan’s dick; Dan, who was now also kneeling on the floor, in front of Tristan. 

Tristan felt two greased fingers go inside him and he moaned loudly over the spit-slick dick in his mouth that he now let Dan freely push into him. Dan again grabbed a harsh hold of Tristan’s thick, black hair, earning another loud groan from him. 

The fingers inside Tristan turned into the head of Kit’s dick. It sat there in the opening like an infuriating tease; every time Tristan tried to push back on it, Kit quickly followed the motion, denying Tristan it. He could hear the ghoul snicker at him. After another push that made Tristan’s eyes tear, Dan pulled out of his mouth and moved a hand to hold his chin instead, stroking his hand slowly over his own dick, in front of Tristan’s face. He looked up at the tall man’s bright eyes. The small smile on his lips caused Tristan’s dick to twitch.

Kit suddenly leaned over Tristan from behind, breathing harshly directly into his ear. ‘Used to getting what you want, aren’t ya?’ he hissed before pushing himself all the way into Tristan. Tristan yelped, which turned into a high-pitched moan, as he sunk down with his forehead against the dry floorboards. Kit thrusted quickly, deeply, immediately. It _hurt_ but _fuck_ it felt good. 

Tristan bore his nails into the wood underneath him. Dan still kept his hand on his head, and now used it to make sure he didn’t get up. He felt spittle run from his squashed mouth and pool beneath. His dick helplessly spurted little jets of precum along Kit’s relentless pounding into him. 

Suddenly, Tristan’s head was torn from the floor, causing him to gasp loudly. With a grunt, Dan slid himself under Tristan’s body, causing him to have to climb on top of him. Kit pulled out, and Dan grabbed Tristan’s hips, pushing himself up into Tristan before he could barely notice that Kit had pulled away. 

Sitting on top, Dan’s dick hit a different way, and it made Tristan lose his breath momentarily, before hissing it out through clenched teeth. Sharply, Dan flicked the tip of Tristan’s dick.

‘Hah-!’ Tristan let out, and Kit, having sprung up from his sitting position, caught Tristan’s open mouth with his, kissing him deeply, harshly; to shut him up. Tristan felt the man underneath him lift his hips up and start to thrust up into him. He moaned into Kit’s mouth, muffled; hard to breathe. 

Kit gave his tongue a sharp bite, before releasing him and sitting down behind him again. For a while, the ghoul simply sat there, stroking Tristan annoyingly lightly over his back, as Dan kept up the hard, quick thrusts up into him. The contrast of sensations made Tristan’s legs shake to the point where he finally almost collapsed against Dan’s chest. 

The blonde man caught Tristan’s slumped form and stilled his hips, breathing onto the side of Tristan’s neck, that had ended up right next to his mouth. Tristan sunk down on Dan’s entire length, squeezing around him despite the throbbing, dull pain. 

Tristan felt Kit near from behind, moving the head of his dick alongside the length of Dan’s that was deep inside Tristan. He tensed up, which caused Dan to moan. 

‘I… I can’t…’ Tristan feebly croaked out into Dan’s face, while feeling Kit inching towards trying to get inside him alongside Dan. A serious look flashed over Dan’s face – Tristan knew it – it was looking for the safe word. Tristan gave a small shake in response, which earned an equally small nod from Dan. Tristan felt Dan remove a hand from his body, probably to give Kit some kind of sign to go on. 

And he did. He pressed down on Dan’s dick, and inched himself into Tristan. Both Dan and Tristan sounded in response; Tristan a long whine, Dan a loud grunt. Tristan’s hands found Dan’s long hair, held onto it to cope with the pain that was slowly easing up and gave way to relentless waves of pleasure. 

He lost track of how long it was going on, but after a while, Dan reached out a hand and brought a familiar red little inhaler which he placed into Tristan’s mouth. Tristan inhaled and let the time-messing wave of Jet take him. The combination of everything that was going on in his body right now was incredible. Everything felt _right_. Everything felt _right here_. 

Dan picked up his thrusting again, now alongside Kit, both of them increasingly faster. Tristan could feel Kit’s hands tense up around his hips and felt him come; he pulled out and let it run down alongside Tristan’s ass, before going back in and reaching round to grab Tristan. It didn’t take much; after a few quick tugs, Tristan came alongside Dan in a shuddering, helplessly screaming mess before completely failing to hold back a deep, sincere laugh. 

‘Fucking hell…’ he whispered against this unknown man’s chest. ‘Fucking hell…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops :3
> 
> Also; I'm using a mod for Hancock (not that he's described in detail here), so he's looking different than he does in the vanilla game - but closer to his concept art! (He has hair, and looks more like an in-between of the standard ghouls around Fallout 4 and a human).


	9. Desideratum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B: A part of chapter 7 had disappeared mysteriously, but it's now put back in - it's in the part where Tristan and MacCready run into the Brotherhood.

Tristan stumbled out into the painfully bright morning light hovering over Goodneighbor. It was eerily silent, and the air was sharp in his lungs compared to the stuffy, moldy smell of the old state house behind him. 

Confusingly enough, he’d woken up feeling quite content. Warm from a blanket and the heat radiating off Kit’s turned back behind him in the bed. Seconds later, panic had hit. How long had he been asleep? Where was he? Why the hell did his head pound as if someone was jumping on it? …_ Shit, MacCready. _

Because of all that, he now stood, armor half on, half still in his hands, a headache threatening to bring him to his knees, and relenting to it by leaning against the cold wall behind him. A pointed cough brought one of his eyes cumbersomely to who was in front of him. 

It was his mercenary companion, arms crossed over his chest and a frustratingly inscrutable face. Worry? Anger? Amused? All three?

‘You ah… Have a good night?’ he said, not changing the strange look on his face. 

‘I am… Urgh,’ Tristan said, removing himself from the safety of the wall with a strained grunt, ‘I didn’t mean to ditch you.’

‘Well, I _did_ ditch you first,’ MacCready said with an unconvincing, light-hearted tone.

‘You know as well as I do that you didn’t,’ Tristan muttered, half-angry with himself for not just accepting MacCready’s attempt at smoothing over the situation. 

‘I mean, it’s not as if you didn’t let _everyone_ know where you were going and with who,’ MacCready sneered, apparently accepting Tristan’s invitation of not letting this just be.

Tristan felt a hot flash over his undoubtedly pale, hung-over face. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just let enough time pass for that to be obvious. 

‘I don’t… It’s not any of my business—,’ MacCready started, the words catching in his throat as Tristan flinched at his words and took a few unsteady steps towards him, ending up close enough for MacCready to notice the cloud of old alcohol that surrounded Tristan.

‘Of course it’s your business. I mean--’ He sighed sharply. ‘As a… companion. I shouldn’t just leave and not let you know where I go. Anything could’ve happened. It was irresponsible.’ He didn’t know if MacCready would’ve liked it if he had addressed anything else between them. If he had said that it was his business because they had been more intimate than the “companions” Tristan called them now. He didn’t know what MacCready thought about any of that. And he still didn’t know himself either. Right now, he felt very far away from the man looking at him. 

‘Yeah. True,’ MacCready said flatly.

Tristan knew that MacCready probably wouldn’t let him know if he’d been worried. This was uncomfortable as it was; not exactly the time anyone wanted to be more vulnerable. He realized that he had expected the mercenary to be angrier at him, though. Had he _hoped_ that? 

He exhaled through his nose and kneeled to go through his backpack, trying to find a can of water. He found one and down most of it. The headache dulled slightly, instantly, but his body shook feebly and would probably do that for the rest of the day. 

_Worth it_.

//

_Entry 36:_

_He’s so proud. Of all this. Of… me. It’s incredible. Not in a good way. Unbelievable is maybe a better word. If this is what it takes to preserve humanity… it’s not justifiable. It’s not worth the cost. _

_I fought for freedom once. It was the one ideal I believed in the military, however naïve that might have been. I still believe in it. _

_Damnit. I really hope Desdemona has a plan. Things will escalate quickly once the institute gets the power they need. I have little choice but to go through with it eventually. I do everything slowly, blame things for it… Try to postpone the inevitable. _

_Soon there will be no stopping them. _

// 

Tristan had a glum feeling of déjà vu as he and MacCready stepped off the half-fallen wooden bridge leading to Sanctuary. They had been silent most of the way from Goodneighbor, their violent encounters with the rest of the Commonwealth sorted in a tense, strict manner. Tristan knew that, again, he would have to _confront_ his companion. Why was this always the way things turned out? 

He corrected himself. It had only been this way with Danse. Him and Cait had a completely different story. Maybe I should’ve just brought her instead. But he couldn’t help but feel guilty around her now, his itch crawling around inside him, still making him unable to fully trust himself. If that somehow got Cait into a habit again… It wasn’t that he didn’t think her strong enough – that was ridiculous – but he couldn’t help being nervous around her. He missed talking to her. Despite everything, he honestly felt that she didn’t judge him, ever. 

‘Alright, freedom fighters!’ Tristan heard Cait yell, as if on cue. This time, she was sitting atop one of the broken houses in the settlement, feet dangling energetically from the edge of the roof. She gave Tristan a huge grin and then a smaller, but Tristan could swear, a keener one, towards the mercenary beside him. He could see MacCready quickly dodge the eye he was given, under his large cap. Oh. 

Tristan was thrown out of his confused, though simultaneously very clear, musings as Cait jumped down from the roof and Tristan knee-jerk threw himself in her direction even though he was not even close to managing to stop or help her in any way. He recoiled as her feet met the ground and it was as if he could _feel_ the impact in his own ankles. But she stood up straight instantly, looking perky and carefree as ever, giving Tristan a scoff as she noticed what he had tried to do. He threw out his hands in defeat, shrugging. 

She simply laughed at him and gave him a warm bearhug. He accepted it more gladly than he knew he would, wrapping his arms around her small frame and momentarily feeling as if he would start crying. Overcome by that wave, he held onto her a little longer than a mere greeting, but she let him without question. 

‘I missed ya, big guy,’ she said when he finally eased up and let her go. He simply nodded with a smile in response. ‘Good to see you as well, sharp-shooty,’ she continued to MacCready and, after hesitating a second, decided to give him a hug as well. He clumsily accepted it, patting her a little on the shoulder awkwardly. She laughed at him as well. 

‘You two have stiffened up like icicles, boys,’ she stated, eyeing the two men while shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘Let’s get you out of that,’ she continued, taking MacCready under the arm and started to walk towards the usual place where a fire burned perpetually in the settlement. 

On seeing that Tristan wasn’t following, she stopped and raised an eyebrow at him.

‘I ah… had a bit of a long night. Think I might turn in with some comics or something,’ he said, vaguely gesticulating towards the Red Rocket to the south. 

Cait whined a little. ‘Oh… Alright,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But can you at least come back up here in the morning for breakfast?’ 

He nodded with a quick smile and gave MacCready a half-hearted two-finger salute before setting off in the direction he’d indicated. MacCready looked as if he was going to protest, but Tristan turned heel before he could, realizing how much of a switched-roles situation from the previous night this was, with a small huff. 

//

But, despite the aching tiredness causing his whole body to shiver, he couldn’t sit down with a comic. He couldn’t sleep. Instead, he paced around the Red Rocket, back and forth, too quick for it to be a show of healthy reveries, he knew that. He was on the verge of frantic. There was anxiety, and some sort of nervous _pulse_ in his head. He knew it was mostly the lingering hang-over. It was chemical imbalance. But it was also guilt and unflattering feelings of jealousy and loneliness and unrelenting, clawing self-hatred. It felt undefinable as it rippled through his whole life, shame from two hundred and twenty years ago rushing over him, mingling with big and small slights he had thrown around him since coming back to life. 

Shame over the time he told Eric he didn’t have to work as hard as Tristan on account of being ‘normal’ felt as close as him abandoning MacCready yesterday. He couldn’t conjure a single thought of himself not being a complete bastard. And that, in itself, made him feel pathetic. He knew he had no right to wallow that much. _This is just going in circles._

He looked up at the moon. It had been just barely sunset as he came down here. He must have been going at this neurotic self-loathing for hours. Maybe Cait was still up. He could use someone to talk to. And downing a beer right now didn’t feel as _as_ much of a terrible, nauseating idea as it had previously. 

He threw on his armor again. It was a very short walk from the decrepit gas station to his old home, but every inch of the Commonwealth was deadlier after dark. He had had to scrap the courier armor some time back; it had finally reached the point where no amount of patching was going to save it after a particularly vicious encounter with a pack of ferals. 

He looked down at his body, sighing. He tried not to do that. The vault suit he and Tom had enforced with ballistic fiber still gave him pangs of bad memories. But the quality of it could not be denied, and, as with the times he relented to getting into Danse’s old PA, he was still pretty determined to not let sentimentality kill him. 

Sanctuary looked like a proper ruin at night. This was another thing he tried not to do. Come here when no one was around to show there was life, to show that this was not the Sanctuary Hills he once knew. But, despite the state he knew the houses actually were in, it looked just like it had once now, when he was carefully walking towards it and it was resting in darkness and a slight fog. He remembered the times he had cycled back from a night out in Concord, leading the bike as quietly as he could over the bridge, along the silent, sleeping houses of his neighbors. How he always managed to knock something over as he tried to make it into his bedroom and woke Nora at the other side of the hall. Rushing through that same hall to get the car ready when Nora went into labor… 

‘Fuck,’ Tristan whispered out into the darkness, stopping as he made it over the bridge and sunk down against the peeling blue sign with the settlements name on. He tried to get his breath back before it turned into crying. If he started now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. Ever. 

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing through an open mouth. He managed. Barely. _Just find Cait. Wake her if you have to._

Stumbling over broken asphalt and tufts of wiry, sharp grass the whole settlement seemed asleep, apart from soft voices coming from the house next to the metal fence around his old one. He stopped and listened. He could make out Cait’s voice, and one other that sometimes interjected, lower. Cait laughed. The other one, who he after a while supposed must be MacCready joined in. They were having a good time. They were enjoying themselves. A pleasant conversation. 

As Tristan stepped over the threshold, knowing full well how little of pleasant and good and enjoyment his whole form brought to the room, Cait, who were the one who sat facing the door, fell silent. MacCready followed suit, arm snapping to the weapon that leaned against the drab, hole-covered once-red sofa he was sitting on. Seeing who had come in, he didn’t immediately let go of the rifle, which told Tristan that he probably looked even worse than he felt. 

‘Heya,’ Cait said, trying to sound chipper, ‘Something wrong?’ 

Tristan looked from one of his friends to the other. He couldn’t help it. Or, that’s what it felt like. 

‘So, this is what you do when I’m not around, huh?’ 

Both Cait and MacCready simply looked at him. 

‘Having a good time, laughing about this broken man who you stumbled on, who can’t get his shit together.’ Tristan could hear himself talking and wanted to make the same face as Cait was making right now. Then again, _what else could they have been talking about?_

Cait stood up, throwing MacCready a look that Tristan only could take to mean something along the lines of ‘let me deal with this lunatic’. Therefore, he violently pulled his arm away when she put her hand on it. 

‘What the fuck is your problem?!’ she snapped. 

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go. I’ll let you get back to your… pleasant little chat,’ Tristan seethed. 

MacCready stood up as well now and walked up next to Cait. 

‘Go on, then,’ he said, quietly, but his voice was tense. 

Tristan realized he hadn’t expected that. Good to get confirmation. He stared at the mercenary, scoffed, and turned on his heel. 

What he also hadn’t expect was that MacCready would follow him instantly as he walked out. He stomped off about ten feet before spinning around, ready to charge at MacCready. He forgot how fast the young man was. 

MacCready managed to catch Tristan’s hands coming towards him with his rifle. Tristan felt at least one nail break against the hard metal, and he hissed at the pain, shaking his hand, leaving room for MacCready to shove him with the rifle. Tristan was still weak, a lot weaker than he had thought, and he fell to the ground with a thud. 

‘What the heck is going on with you?’ MacCready said. He didn’t sound angry; it sounded like a genuine concern. 

Tristan heaved himself up to half-sitting. He didn’t reply, just stared down onto the dark, dusty, cracked asphalt, supporting himself on his arms, head hanging between them. 

‘I don’t…’ Tristan sat up properly and buried his face in his hands. ‘I think I’m losing my mind.’

Cait came out of the house, still angrier than MacCready, judging by how hard her feet met the ground. Nearing the two men she slowed down, however, and stopped some feet away from Tristan’s huddled figure. 

‘You can’t just say things like that, alright?’ she said. ‘And what the hell was that supposed to mean anyway? Everyone’s got their own broken life around here, you know, you don’t got monopoly on pain just because you remember a better world than this. _Sorry_ if we’re not good enough for you.’

Tristan looked up at her. ‘That’s not… That’s not at all…’ He ungracefully stood up and she backed away at his approach. He stopped, nearly hyperventilating. ‘I don’t know why I said that, I don’t—’

‘I do,’ Cait cut him off with. ‘You’re jealous. I can’t say I know exactly why, and I don’t want to make stuff up. So, talk.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. Tristan heard MacCready put down his rifle. ‘You bothered by other people making friends and not just you?’

Tristan couldn’t reply, because he honestly didn’t know the answer to her question. He tried to pull at any feasible thread in the knots and tangles that were his thoughts right now, but everything just seemed a mess. He was so incredibly, unbearably ashamed of what he had said to them just now, all he wanted to do was apologize. But he knew that Cait was right. He would have to do more than that. Knowing that didn’t help right now, though. He furiously clawed at his own cuticles, inches from actual handwringing. 

‘No. I-- I want you to be friends. Of course… Of course I want that.’ It sounded weird when he said it. It sounded as if he didn’t mean it. But he did. It was just that… something was blocking it. He closed his eyes tightly, letting his breath out in a long, voiced sigh. ‘Can I just say that… I am very sorry. For saying that. I honestly don’t really know what happened… in my… in my head.’ It was true.

‘Was a little scary, not gonna lie,’ MacCready said. Tristan turned his head to look at him. A wan light reached the mercenary from the oil lamp inside the house, causing his eyes to glint orange.

Tristan looked back at Cait, and then back at MacCready one more time, before turning his gaze down onto the ground instead. ‘I’m happy you two are friends.’ This time it sounded right. 

‘I’m _your_ friend too, grumpy,’ Cait said, walking up to him. This time, he let her put her hand on his arm, even though he couldn’t help but feel that it was patronizing. Why am I like this.

When Cait had replied something, the fact that MacCready _didn’t_ was noticeable to both Tristan and Cait. Tristan sighed, put a hand on Cait’s and squeezed it a little, giving her a tired smile. ‘I’m sorry. Again,’ he said and then turned to MacCready. ‘And where do we stand, then?’ 

MacCready shot him a glance and then looked down towards the ground, eyebrows knitted. Cait, without another word, simply walked back into the house again and Tristan moved a little closer to MacCready. It was a very small motion, but Tristan could see the other man recoiling slightly, so he stopped, unsure how to move on. 

‘I didn’t want to… Ugh,’ MacCready said, grunting as the words seemed to fail him at first. ‘This is going to sound as if I’m… like, trying to put words in your mouth, but that’s not what I’m trying to do, okay?’ 

Tristan nodded carefully. ‘I think, after my little… whatever that was… You’re free to do that.’

MacCready let out a short laugh. ‘I didn’t want to, uhm, _hurt_ you.’

It sounded as if it was only half of what was to be said, but MacCready didn’t continue. 

‘What do you mean?’ Tristan tried. 

A frustrated sigh shot out of MacCready. ‘I mean, the thing… after Mass Fusion or whatever, it was fine, but I don’t… I don’t think I actually see you that way now. Like, you’re… Everything you’ve done for me, they way you’ve listened, I feel as if I owe you—’

‘Hold it’ Tristan said, raising his hand. MacCready fell silent. ‘It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. You would never, _ever_ owe me anything, _especially_ not that.’ He sounded angry. He was, but not at MacCready — how could he be? He was angry that his inability to just talk about things, when he _knew_ MacCready had a propensity for feeling indebted about everything, had gotten them here. But it sure sounded as if he was angry with the mercenary. 

‘Look,’ he continued, putting his hand on MacCready’s arm, as Cait had done to him. He could feel the young man’s lean bicep tensing, but it quickly relaxed. ‘I haven’t earned your friendship lately, at all, and I get it if you feel as if you want to—’

This time, MacCready cut Tristan off. ‘Oh, come on! You _have_ my friendship, chief. Don’t be an idiot. I was just worried you… I don’t know. That you felt something I didn’t.’

Tristan looked him in his bright eyes and managed a small smile. He let go of his arm. ‘It’s silly. I think I was worried about the same thing. But I also didn’t… really know what I felt about you.’

‘I hear that,’ MacCready said quietly. ‘Same for me.’

They were silent for a while. Tristan realized he had thought of something for quite some time, since MacCready had talked about hanging his hat somewhere, if he were being completely honest with himself. He didn’t know if this was the right moment to bring it up. He didn’t know if there was a right moment for anything nowadays. Everything was just one big snowball down a hill for him. 

‘Feel free to knock this idea completely,’ Tristan started and MacCready gave him a blank, yet slightly alarmed face, ‘Nothing crazy. I think.’ He snorted at himself. ‘Could you… see yourself sticking around here for a while, in Sanctuary? They could really use some protection and just general help. This place has potential, but it’s just falling more and more apart. I mean… It’s not as deadly as anything I get up to, I suppose, but…’

MacCready didn’t reply at first, just let the proposition hang uncertainly in the air for a while. He looked at Tristan, and then out at the surrounding darkness. Then, he seemed to think to himself, biting his lip, flickering something loose on his rifle with a clicking sound as he did so. 

‘I think I’d like that,’ he said, finally. 

Tristan couldn’t hold back a smile. He couldn’t remember MacCready saying he liked anything ever. Not like this. Not something he would like to _do_; not because of necessity, but because he had a choice. 

‘Thank you,’ Tristan said, which earned a slightly confused look from MacCready. Tristan laughed a little at the face, leaned in to give MacCready a light, friendly kiss on the cheek and began to walk along the scarred asphalt south, towards a place filled with less memories. 

//

This time, bringing Dogmeat along didn’t make Tristan find anything bad about that his canine companion’s didn't reply anything other than energetic panting and encouraging barks. He even managed a good, cleansing cry into the thick, dusty fur of the big dog, which was met with silence and, eventually, a foul-smelling face-lick. It was everything but complicated. 

Still, his little errands around the Commonwealth that he ran to postpone his inevitable return to the Institute – picking up things for the Railroad, placing Tom’s contraptions in weird, high places – eventually led him back to Goodneighbor. He snorted at himself as he absentmindedly turned a corner and was met by the dim neon of the settlement’s signage. He looked down at Dogmeat who replied with a small whine and an inclined head. Tristan shrugged. 

‘Guess we could use sleep in a bed, eh, boy?’ 

Dogmeat barked.

Not counting the first time he stepped through the door to Goodneighbor, every time he had come here there had been a quite calm atmosphere, albeit one lined with armed guards. That was not the case this time. 

K-L-E-O had stepped around her counter, something Tristan had never seen her do before, and one of her arms was spinning loudly, whirring up in preparation to fire the weapon lodged in there. A dull red light glowed in the middle of her head. Three people – all human – stumbled back from her, practically over each other, their drawn weapons falling out of their hands as they did so. 

‘Don’t let me see you around here again,’ sounded the Assaultron’s voice and a whiff of air, sounding like a sigh, hissed out from among her armor plates. It didn’t look as if that would have to be a concern, Tristan thought. The red light on the robot’s face dimmed down and she walked back into her shop. Tristan followed the three people with his eyes, seeing them disappear further into Goodneighbor, and walked up to K-L-E-O with a questioning eyebrow raised. 

‘They trying to haggle?’ he said.

A beep, that somehow managed to sound annoyed, sounded from the Assaultron. ‘They had trouble understanding the concept of non-human store-owners. It got on my nerves,’ she said. ‘You here to buy anything? I’m not in the mood to chat.’

Tristan nodded, taking off his backpack, to which he had strapped an assortment of weapons subpar to the ones he used, but that he knew would fetch a decent price. He’d done this enough to know that K-L-E-O offered what was proper for his wares, and he bartered some ammunition for most of what he had brought. 

Intending to rent a room at Hotel Rexford, he made his way into Goodneighbor proper, choosing not to look for anyone he recognized among the neighborhood Watch. He was tired and he felt testy; he juggled at least five inclinations towards different chems, substituting one for another when he felt one hook get too deeply lodged into him. It was a terrible short-term solution. 

Crossing the street and passing the Memory Den, Dogmeat suddenly stopped right in front of him, and he had to take care not to stumble over the now ragged, puffed up dog. He stared into the alley between the equally light-adorned buildings of the Den and the Hotel. He could make out faint shapes in the darkness. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, placing a hand on Dogmeat’s neck, which the dog reacted to by giving a short whine and clearly indicating something alarming in the direction his nose was pointing. ‘Let’s not find trouble if it doesn’t jump at us, eh?’ he continued but was stopped from moving towards the Hotel by the voice of a man stepping into a bit of light, though remaining in the alley. 

‘Lookee here… Another ghoul-fucker coming back to roll around in the dirt,’ the man said. He spoke quietly, clearly only to Tristan. 

Tristan tried to gauge the man. He quickly realized that he probably wasn’t from Goodneighbor; he wore remarkably tattered cameo pants and an equally shabby black hoodie, with the hood up. He wasn’t sure he had met anyone who dressed like that in the Commonwealth since he woke up. The man didn’t speak with a glint in his eye; what he had said had not been a playful threat, it just sounded like hatred. 

Tristan looked around him. All the Watch were quite far away right now. Very typical. They always seemed to be everywhere to Tristan, and now he only saw one at the other side of the street, lounging outside the old state house. 

‘Aren’t you in the wrong place if that’s something you have a problem with?’ Tristan said as calmly as he could, careful to not visibly show how close he was to a weapon. 

‘We’re in the exactly _right_ place for that, you disgusting little roach,’ the man hissed. ‘Letting them exist is one thing - _mating_ with them is a whole different one.’

_Good. Great. Animal-terminology. That’s always a fun touch._

Tristan sighed. He had felt his hand tense into a ball at the man’s words. He could see the other two behind him now, a man and a woman, both in similar clothes as him. He couldn’t tell if they were part of some organization of if they were just three people with really bad views. _I mean, could be both, I suppose._

‘Okay, I don’t want trouble. Though I doubt you’ll find anyone agreeing with you around here,’ Tristan said, trying to resume his walk towards the hotel. He was stopped by a harsh tug into the alley. 

Dogmeat reacted quickly, a sharp bark escaping him. He quieted down as Tristan raised his hand carefully in the dog’s direction. He’d give them one last chance to let this go. He just wanted to go to bed. 

‘What is it you like, huh? Does it make you feel more human? Is it self-loathing, is that it – you feel like you deserve being used by them?’ It was the woman talking now. None of them seemed armed with anything more than their fists. 

‘What the fuck is–?’ Tristan tore himself from the grip of the man. ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you people.’

The third man stepped closer to him and he had a grin on his face, though it was completely devoid of anything good. ‘_You_ are what is wrong, you degenerate,’ he growled. 

Both of Tristan’s fists tried to go for his face, but the man and woman next to him were fast; them managed to catch an arm each and did so with a cackle. Fine. 

Tristan banged his forehead into the stupid grin on the face of the man in front of him. He didn’t feel hurt, so he did it again. This time he was sure he felt teeth on his forehead, and something warm started to run down the side of his face. The grips on his arms let go; he heard someone call out “Shit!” He spun around and managed to get the woman across the face with his elbow and she tumbled to the ground, Dogmeat helping with the felling, keeping her down. 

The man who had done most of the talking scrambled back from Tristan, staring into his face with terror in his eyes. Tristan lunged towards him, causing the man to run out onto the street. Tristan caught himself on the corner of the hotel, dizzy from the impact his head had suffered, all but blinded by the blood in his eyes. He loudly growled through his teeth, barely seeing the man stop about ten feet away, holding his arms out towards the community around him. 

‘Hear that Goodneighbor?!’ he shouted into the air, ‘You and your bloody ghouls won’t taint humanity for long! Do like this man and _fornicate_ with radiated monsters and suffer the same fate as him!’ 

Tristan hissed, wiping the blood off his face with his arm and opened his eyes to see that the man had, despite Tristan not seeing it before, pulled a makeshift pipe pistol on him. It didn’t look as if it fired dependably, but he couldn’t really take the chance. 

‘Dogmeat!’ he croaked into the alley behind him and the dog perked up instantly from the woman on the ground, darting up next to Tristan and then for the man in the street. The man saw the large dog leaping in his direction, and it was enough of a distraction for Tristan. He pulled the 10mm pistol from the holster on his leg and fired two shots into the man’s knee. A loud howl sounded, and the man’s pistol went off into the air. 

Tristan ran for him. It could be over, but it wasn’t. He didn’t think clearly. It felt like the words that had bounced up among the buildings had woke something up in him and it was relentless. It was very, _very_ angry.

Tristan dizzily noticed Dogmeat backing away as he landed on the man on the ground, butt of his gun first, into the man’s face. He couldn’t see, which was probably for the best. But he could feel. _It’s happening again. Make it stop._ An inexplicable rage controlled his arms, falling onto the body underneath him harder and harder until they were stopped by something else. 

He felt hands grabbing at him, at his arms, his body, dragging him away, letting him go, dumping him on the ground. No one said anything. He heard several people breathing. He heard one of those breathings being through a broken, wet gurgling. 

‘Please…’ he heard the man wheeze, but without any clear consonants. A gun went off, and the broken breathing abruptly stopped. 

The loud noise made Tristan jump to his feet like a scared animal. He opened his eyes and caught a flash of what his hands had managed before he turned around and almost fell over again, holding back a very strong impulse to throw up. Still, no one said anything. 

After a while he heard a ‘Fucking hell…’ from somewhere. 

Tristan shook his head and started to stumble through the crowd that had gathered, away from here, but he was promptly stopped by someone grabbing hold of the sleeve of his vault suit. He closed his eyes and sighed, hearing his breath shivering as it made its way out of him, and turned to face whoever it was that was probably going to shoot him. 

He opened his eyes and looked straight into a gleaming pair of dark eyes under the brim of a three-cornered hat. Tristan had no idea why, but there was definitely the hint of a smile playing at the corner of the mayor’s eyes. Better than the barrel of a gun. 

‘I’ll… see myself out, don’t worry,’ Tristan muttered. But, noticing how the mayor didn’t let go of his arm he fully turned towards the ghoul instead. ‘Or… are you just going to off me here in the street, is that it?’

Hancock laughed and let go of Tristan. ‘Now what makes you say a thing like that, huh?’ he said, reaching into an inner pocket of his patched coat, taking out a cigarette and a flip lighter, and handing it to Tristan after lighting it. Tristan slowly took it, not sure what to make of anything right now. ‘That fucker was obviously the dregs of humanity,’ Hancock muttered, nodding towards the mess of a body peeking through the legs of the crowd around it. He lit a cigarette for himself. 

Tristan didn’t know what to say. He felt the consequences of his actions, on a personal level, come crawling through his consciousness. He took a long drag on the cigarette. 

‘Could use someone like you, if you’re looking for work,’ Hancock said, keeping his eyes on the crowd, which now had started to scrape the remains of the man’s head off the ground and drag the rest of it somewhere else than in the middle of the road. Tristan turned his back. Hancock shifted his gaze to Tristan. 

‘I don’t think I’m much use to anyone, to be honest,’ Tristan said, not surprised at how distant his voice sounded to him. He knew that would be the least of the effects this would have on him. 

‘I think you underestimate my needs, brother,’ the mayor said with a grin.


	10. Old Habits

It wasn’t exactly uncommon that smell was what hit first when opening a door to a building in the Commonwealth. The mildew of the old police station where he met Danse flashed before him, then some old brewery smelling like fifteen sticky hangovers, rotting fish, rotting meat. One could imagine that something _fresh_ would be a welcome change. One would be wrong in this case. 

Like a heavy, wet top note on a heap of familiar rotting flesh hung a distinct, choking smell of fresh blood. Like soggy iron; a mist in the air clogging the lungs. Tristan steadied himself against the wall for a few seconds, trying to decide if he even could stay in here. He could hear dripping, squelching; it seemed to come from the entire building. Lights were on. He could hear voices. But the conversation that was ongoing abruptly stopped before he could register what it was about. 

‘What the-? Shit!’

He knew what that meant. The click before the gunshot. He jumped into the adjacent room and landed on a slippery wetness that instantly brought him to his knees, sliding into a heap. A heap of red, sticky carcasses. He knew that if he didn’t fight the urge to throw up with everything that he had, the next thing that would be filling his mouth would be his own blood. The _ra-ta-ta_ of an automatic weapon hammered against the dry, dusty walls to the room. 

_It’s a shape. Get behind it._ He crawled, getting viscous, half-coagulated blood all over himself and managed to get behind the pile of bodies, or, he noticed, more like parts of bodies, or bodies with parts missing – whichever one felt the most appropriate. 

His hand slipped once as he tried to grab his rifle from its holster. Cursing through his teeth, he wiped his hand off on the leg of the once-blue vault-suit and managed to finally get the weapon into a position where it did any good. 

There was something erratic about the raiders shooting at him, some of them stumbling down stairs from a top floor. He caught a glimpse of one of their faces, and the eyes were wide, screwed up, bewildered. Not that he was very surprised, given the state of this place. If they had slipped into causing this much of a creative massacre, they couldn’t be all there mentally. Their irrational flailing and inability to stay behind cover made them easy to pick off as more and more of them seemed to just run into Tristan’s crosshair, however, and they piled up, like a more intact copy of the heap Tristan now stood up straight from behind. 

For a while, he just looked at the fresh pile of bodies, two of which were dogs. He didn’t want to look around. He knew things were in frames. He could tell from the forms in his periphery that the bodies around him were _staged_, not like a threat, but like… art. _I don’t know if I can do this._

He tried to scramble together some sort of sense of duty, or honor. Something like that. He had to help Hancock. If he didn’t fix this, they would just go on. He had to stop it. For the greater good. Be a vigilante. _Here we go._ Dogmeat barked. Tristan felt reassured for some reason, that Dogmeat didn’t seem comfortable here either. He burrowed his fingers into the dog’s thick fur. 

‘Come on boy, let’s get this over with quickly.’

//

Tristan realized too late that he should’ve washed off. At least a little bit. Even if most of the stains on his clothes were far beyond saving, he could’ve at least gotten the _clots_ off. But he was already in the line of sight of Goodneighbor’s mayor, and Tristan could tell that he had noticed him. 

With a frown, he managed to pull a rag from his backpack without taking it off and tried to make it seem as if he had intended to do that, and wiped some of the worst of… everything he was covered in by now, as he made his way up to Hancock.  
It was unclear what the ghoul thought. He just watched Tristan with a small smile, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the spotty whitewash of the state house walls. 

‘How’s my little scout doing? Find out what’s happening at Pickman Gallery?’

Tristan scoffed and, with a jump at how silently she had appeared, accepted a much cleaner piece of cloth that Fahrenheit put way too close to Tristan’s face. Fahrenheit shook her head at Tristan and then left, pulling the double doors to the room half-shut behind her. 

Tristan dragged the damp cloth over his face. He hoped it wasn’t covered in oil or something. 

‘How do I even start?’ He sighed. ‘You know why they called it the Pickman gallery?’

‘No… That was the point of the whole job, remember?’ The smile was gone from Hancock’s face, and Tristan found himself really wanting it to come back. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Let’s just say Pickman’s art isn’t going to have much resale value once all those bodies start decaying.’ Tristan heard himself joke and hoped he hadn’t made a fatal mistake.

A grin quickly spread over Hancock’s face and a chuckle slipped him. ‘Well, they say all artistic inspiration is ephemeral, am I right?’ 

The grin sent a shock through Tristan. He swallowed. 

‘Wish I could say that was the most twisted thing I’ve ever heard of,’ Hancock continued, ‘But it ranks up there. Top three, at least.’

‘Heh,’ slipped Tristan.

‘I’ll put the word out. Tell people to stay clear of that area.’ Hancock bit what remained of his lower lip before continuing. Then he pointed the nearly finished cigarette in his hand at Tristan. ‘Hiring you was definitely one of my better moments.’ 

Ash flew from the cigarette butt and he dropped it on the floor, stamping it out before walking up to a combination-locked suitcase behind him. Tristan couldn’t see exactly what was in it, but he heard the, now familiar, sound of bottle caps. Hancock turned back with a pouch which made the same sound and reached it over to Tristan. 

‘Spend it in good health.’

Tristan took the pouch, got his bacpack off, and put the little pouch into it. He did it slightly absentmindedly; he had realized something. He noticed Hancock not moving, still standing against the wall, watching him. Tristan stood back up again and met the ghoul’s gaze, thought almost not managing to keep it there steady. There was something incredibly shameless in how Hancock looked at him. Maybe at everyone. 

‘This was a test, right?’ Tristan said, unsure what to do with his hands. 

Hancock cocked a hairless eyebrow. 

‘Sending me there. You knew what was there and you wanted to see how I reacted.’

‘Hm…’ Hancock hummed with a closed-lipped smile. ‘Needed to see if that… little show out on the street was just plain old rage or, you know, if you were properly unhinged. Both are just as common around here, and only one of them I can allow in my town. Your name has been making the rounds, you’re doing good work. I needed to see if we could keep you. If you came back from Pickman Gallery without feeling at least a _little_ bit uncool about it…’

‘I get it,’ Tristan muttered. 

‘You pissed?’

Tristan snorted. ‘What? No. No… Just…’ He sighed sharply. ‘Not happy about how that… whole thing turned out.’ He motioned dully towards the direction where the fight had taken place. _If you can call it that._

‘Ah, man…’ Hancock leaned forward and gave Tristan a clap on the back, and left his strong, sinewy hand around Tristan’s shoulder. ‘I know. It happens, but I know.’ He let go of Tristan’s shoulder, though slowly. ‘You let me know if you need to kick back with som jet if it gets bad, yeah? We take care of each other around here.’ 

Tristan nodded curtly. He didn’t want to talk about it. He wouldn’t mind downing ten canisters of jet, but he didn’t feel comfortable doing it around Hancock. He didn’t know him. And he felt way too… affected by him. He sighed again, involuntarily, and then he shook his head. 

‘I’m--ah… Yeah. See you around,’ he muttered, picked up his bag and marched straight off to Hotel Rexford. 

//

Or, at least, that had been the intention. In the middle of the street, he was stopped by a man in a suit and he really hoped it wasn’t Kit because he wasn’t in the mood. It wasn’t Kit. It was another ghoul, holding his tommy gun as casually as everyone else in the neighborhood watch. Tristan didn’t say anything, just waited to hear the reason he had been stopped. The man had touched Tristan’s sleeve to stop him, but quickly recoiled, looking at his now sticky, maroon-stained fingertips with disgust, before speaking. 

‘Bobby’s looking for you,’ he said. 

Tristan kept watching him, waiting for a further explanation that didn’t come. The ghoul simply gave him a similarly questioning look as Tristan was giving. 

‘Who’s Bobbi?’ Tristan said, borderline sneering. 

‘Oh, uh…’ The ghoul let out a short laugh. ‘Thought everyone knew the No-nose in one way or another. She’s ‘round the corner and down the alley there.’ He nodded towards the far end of the old state house. 

‘Said she heard about uh… “a strong, competent guy in a blue catsuit” and that she was on the lookout for someone like that. Don’t know if the _blue_ part is necessary, but you’re the only blue-dressed guy around who’s also competent,’ he said, nodding lazily off towards where Tristan knew a guy in a very well-worn blue postman suit sat around practically always. 

Tristan grunted. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered and didn’t walk in the direction the ghoul had indicated. He _did_ need something to do, but he needed a wash and sleep a lot more right now.

//

He got the wash out of the way and the suit half-way off before he realised that sure, he was very, very tired, but he was also tense, and his mind felt like an anthill. He kept rustling his own hair violently in response to the feeling of thoughts creeping around underneath it, itching on the inside. He pulled the suit back on. He sat down on the bed. It creaked angrily under his weight. He stood up again. The floorboards under his pacing feet creaked just as angrily as the bed. Every noise cut through his head like daggers. _Fuck this. _

The pace he kept getting to the Third Rail made him have to stop inside the door to get his breath back. He was sure that if he stopped for too long, he would change his mind, and then he would toss and turn in the uncomfortable bed over at Hotel Rexford the entire night, sleeplessly stuck in bad thoughts. Maybe he could just get really drunk. Or something else. Whatever else. 

Ham gave him a short nod as he made it out of the shadows by the door. Tristan tried to give him a friendly smile, but he was pretty sure it just looked like a pained spasm. He hurried down the stairs. The usually comforting sound of Magnolia’s voice and her backing track sounded warped, unreal. _What the hell is wrong with me._ It wasn’t the onset of his usual trauma, it felt like good old fatigue and it was nauseating. He had fully intended to make it over to the bar, but the crowd and the noise of it made him freeze in his step by the end of the stairs. He had the distinct feeling that he didn’t know how to get through a crowd at all. He’d fall to the floor like a dead tree trunk. Leaning against the solid railing to the stairs he let his eyes just swim around the contours of people. He saw Kit. He didn’t know if he saw him back, because Tristan couldn’t be bothered with focusing his eyes. 

Then, the shape that was Kit moved, and he definitely moved towards Tristan. Decisive, effectively. Tristan blinked and could see the smile on Kit’s lipless face. He stopped close to Tristan, breath smelling slightly of alcohol, heat emanating from his body. The ghoul leaned in towards Tristan’s ear to make himself heard over the music. 

‘You want a drink? Kinda look like you need one.’

Tristan couldn’t help grabbing the sleeve of Kit’s suit at feeling his breath against his ear. Kit scoffed with a grin at it and took a small step closer, brushing against Tristan, who lost his breath.

‘No, I want…’ He inclined his head without thinking to do it, towards Kit’s face. Kit shrugged and kissed Tristan in response, pressing him against the wall-railing of the stairs behind him. 

‘That?’ Kit grunted against Tristan’s breath. 

Tristan nodded and went for another kiss. Kit reciprocated it and then bit Tristan’s lip before leaning away from him again. Tristan felt that he needed water. And sleep. And not actually this. But he wanted nothing but this right now. His head was a jumbled mess. 

‘Let’s go then,’ Kit said with a grin, finishing the last of a bottle of beer Tristan hadn’t even noticed he had in his hand. He put the now empty hand in the small of Tristan’s back instead and guided him up the stairs. 

They had barely got into the dimly lit, dust-smelling room in the basement of the state house before Kit slammed the door shut with Tristan’s body. A surprised, but grateful, groan shot out of Tristan. Kit’s uneven hand closed around Tristan’s throat, softly, and he looked straight into Tristan’s half-lidded, dazed eyes. 

‘Tell me when to stop, yeah?’

Tristan nodded. Somewhere in the back of his head he heard himself note that he didn’t know whether he trusted himself, but he wasn’t about to tell Kit that. He just needed his head to _shut the fuck up right now. _

Strong fingers narrowed his windpipe. He exhaled a strained breath, a dull smile on his lips. He felt Kit’s other hand unzip the vault suit and he snaked his arms out of it, reached out to pull Kit’s hips towards himself. The ghoul breathed short, harsh breaths over Tristan’s increasingly numbing lips. He felt the lack of blood cause his whole face to prickle, he heard himself wheeze, before no air at all made it past Kit’s hand. Hazily he noticed Kit’s other hand grab his hard dick. He kept his hand low on the shaft and guided the head of it against the sharp edges of the steel clasp of his belt. Tristan tensed his jaw at the pain and then gasped loudly as Kit let go of his throat. 

Kit didn’t leave any room for Tristan’s coughing, but simply turned him over while he was still trying to get his breath back. The protruding decorative edges on the door he was up against pushed into his cheek as Kit pressed his face against it. His mouth was open to get breath, his teeth and tongue rasped against the flaky paint; it tasted like chemicals and old wood. 

Tristan heard Kit spit into his hand and then felt the ghoul’s fingers go into his ass. He moaned into the door and pushed back against the man behind him. Kit’s other hand squeezed one of Tristan’s nipples and it caused him to momentarily lose the strength in his knees. Kit steadied him with his own legs, pushing him further against the door. 

A flash of a grin passed by behind Tristan’s closed eyelids, causing them to fly open. _That wasn’t Kit’s grin._ He started to curse under his breath, but it turned into a much louder one as Kit’s dick pushed into him. He should probably have told him to be more careful. He didn’t. That grin would have to be washed out of his head with something. Pain would have to do. _As usual._

//

He didn’t find any comfort in Kit’s turned back this time. He sat at the edge of the bed, fingers lazily trailing his own scalp, hunched over his legs. Throat felt sore, both inside and out, his skin stung all over. Exhaling through his nose, he stood up and got back into his partially stale-from-blood vault suit. It smelled sour. He made a face at it. There was no way he would go over to a new employer without washing this thing more properly than he had in his weird state the day before.

He tried to open the creaking door to the room as silently as possible and was met by the sound of Dogmeat’s claws rapping against the floor as the dog made it out from the darkness of the corridor outside the room. 

‘Hey boy,’ Tristan whispered and sat down to put his arms around Dogmeat as he trotted up to Tristan. That wasn’t how he usually greeted the big dog, but it felt comforting. Dogmeat’s tail hit hard against the stairway next to him. 

‘Appreciate you not shying away despite all this,’ Tristan continued, motioning down towards his suit. Dogmeat inclined his head with a questioning whine. Tristan smiled down at him. 

‘Never mind that. Let’s get you some breakfast.’ 

Dogmeat gave a loud, sharp bark and made for the stairs. Tristan scrunched up his entire face at the sound, both because it momentarily made his headache fifty times worse and because it made him think that it must’ve woken up Kit. So, to escape any awkward run-ins, he quickly followed Dogmeat out into the foggy, very early, morning.


	11. Trouble

‘Hey you. Looking for work?’

A monotonous, rough-sounding voice came from the small window in the rusted blue steel-reinforced door, before a ghoul bent down to peer out of it with eyes that managed to look sharp and scrutinizing, and droll and arrogant at the same time. She seemed to catch a glimpse at the blue collar of Tristan’s vault suit, and a shadow of a smile rippled over her face before settling back into the hard stare. 

‘It’s good work. Under supervision of the best boss you’ll ever have,’ she continued. 

‘Meaning you, I take it?’ Tristan muttered, unsure if he wanted it to be heard. 

‘If you don’t mind a little manual labor,’ the ghoul continued, ignoring Tristan’s remark, ‘and don’t ask too many questions, you’re in. I’ll give you 50 caps to start.’

Tristan scoffed, both at the offered caps, and at the striking lack of information. ‘Gonna need a little more to go on here.’

The ghoul snorted through blocked nostrils; a noise like a choked trumpet. ‘There’s a project I’m working on, a big one. One that could get me in lots of trouble if the wrong person finds out.’ 

She gave Tristan a look that he guessed was supposed to mean something, but he was unsure of what; it just looked like an unsteady glare. ‘Means a little distraction is called for – got a delicate house of cards goin’ here, ya know?’

‘Right.’ Tristan took a step towards the door. ‘That’s the case, you’re gonna have to offer a bit more than pocket change though.’

‘Fine. 100 caps,’ she muttered, and Tristan could see the orange gleam of a cigarette being harshly dragged on. 

Tristan shrugged. ‘Okay, I’m in.’

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ she said with a small smile and Tristan heard the creak of a latch being removed from the other side of the door. It swung open. 

‘I’m Bobbi, and you… are gonna be doing some digging.’ Bobbi said as she had led Tristan beyond another door, inside a brightly lit, but terribly run-down old apartment building. Seemed the way to any other story above was blocked by debris since forever. The way downstairs seemed amply both lit and passable, however. 

‘Tristan,’ Tristan said, offering his hand, which Bobbi took with a firm grip and shook once. 

‘We… digging for buried treasure?’ He wasn’t sure why he went for something like that in all honesty, Bobbi didn’t exactly seem like someone who appreciated a joke. But you never knew. 

‘You could call it that,’ she said, but the smile she said it with was less that of one appreciating a joke, and more one that hinted at her having many secrets and were about to divulge absolutely none of them. And, fittingly enough, the smile ran off rapidly enough to expose it as the insincere grimace it was. She was back to resembling a stone, if stones could look as if they had had enough of the world for forty lifetimes already. 

‘Seriously. Lay off the questions,’ she muttered through cigarette-clenching remnants of lips. ‘The other two are down there digging already. Go give ‘em a hand, will ya?’

Tristan shrugged in response and questioningly nodded in the direction of the stairs leading down. Bobbi rolled her eyes and made a face that seemed to say ‘what the hell do you think, smart-ass?’ and Tristan couldn’t exactly fault her for that. 

The walls looked as if they had been torn down with a sledgehammer – or explosives – and led into natural tunnels, or caverns, after a while. Tristan could make out voices, but not exactly what they were saying, before he heard a much more easily deciphered noise. Cascading dirt and sand, the high-pitched squeak of over-sized crustaceans, the clicking of the limbs of exoskeletons. Mirelurks. 

Through the thick dust clouds billowing up from the emerging creatures came two wide-eyed, stumbling, yelling men, all but shoving Tristan into the stone walls of the tunnel before disappearing upstairs. Tristan tried to get back on his feet as quickly as possible, clawing at his side to get hold of his monster of a wrench. He found its jagged outline and also managed to drag his palm across one of the very sharp protrusions he had ‘modified’ it with and hissed sharply as he felt blood make the handle slick as he brandished it in front of him. He tried to gauge where the creatures were by sound, as he had opened his eyes and immediately got them filled with stinging sand, causing everything in front of him be a painful blur. It was almost claustrophobic, the way the skittering noise of the weirdly small legs of the mirelurks bounced inside the tunnel he braced himself against. _Why did I send Dogmeat back to Sanctuary? Why did I think this wouldn’t turn violent? When has anything not turned violent lately?_

Compensating for his lack of ocular assistance, he swung in front of him as hard as he could, making sure that _if_ he hit something, he’d make it count. Surprised, his first swing found immediate purchase, sending a shockwave through his body as the wrench met first a hard shell, but cracked it, and landed in a very soft mush underneath it. A strange, multi-voiced squeak came from the creature and sent it toppling to one side. The sand in his eyes still stung, but he forced them to stay open despite it and went for the mirelurks beady eye as soon as he got the red steel tool out of the soft tissue. It was enough to make the greenish animal collapse in a wriggling heap, legs cramping and then folding in against the body. 

The two other mirelurks had kept back and watched Tristan batter their brood-mate, feelers twitching nervously is the sandy haze of the cavern. Tristan spat some fish-tasting dirt on the ground, placing the wrench back in its hook on the side of his backpack, and instead reached for his rifle. His vision seemed clearer than usual, compared to how impeded it had been just moments earlier, and he managed to turn the exposed vulnerable parts of the mirelurks into paste before they had even managed to realize they were supposed to shield themselves from his assault. 

He wiped the tears still pouring from his eyes away with the back of his forearm. Soft, slow footfalls made their way towards him from behind. Through the haze that had spread all the way out into the tunnel came Bobbi, a freshly lit cigarette gleaming in the fog. 

‘What the hell is going on here?’ she sighed. 

‘Your men ran off when they saw the-ah…’ Tristan motioned behind him, ‘Mirelurks in here.’ He realised that it was impossible to make out what he was waving towards from where Bobbi was standing. 

‘No, really? Thanks for the news report,’ Bobbi snarked. 

_Well, what the hell did you ask for, then?_ Tristan didn’t say anything, he just dully inspected the jagged cut the edge of the wrench had carved in the middle of his palm. _Damnit._

‘Well, you stuck around at least,’ Bobbi continued in a languid tone. ‘So, I guess you’re promoted. You get to be my new gun.’ She really tried to make it sound like she was offering something special. ‘I think we just need one more guy.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Tristan muttered, thinking this was way beyond 100 caps, but that negotiation would have to wait until later. As Bobbi talked, he tried to find something clean enough to wrap around his hand. 

‘An old friend. He’ll want a fair cut, but we saw where being cheap got me.’

‘And who’s this guy?’ He found a clean_ish_ paisley patterned bandana. It would have to do.

‘Just the guy we need to speed things along. Likes gadget, money, and not much else. First, I think it’s best if you can actually see what we’re after. I have some things to check on in Diamond City. Head over to the Noodle Shop there and I’ll meet ya when I finish up my business.’

Tristan raised his eyebrows; he couldn’t help it. The way she was talking probably meant that this was even sketchier than it seemed. He reminded himself that he could just walk out if it got too bad and shrugged. 

‘Right. See you in Diamond City.’

//

‘You _seriously_ didn’t think Hancock would catch wind of your scheme?’

It was bright, smelled of rust and old car parts; gasoline, welding. Fahrenheit was leaning, in a deliberate pose of dominance, on a ledge 60 feet above, in front of them. _Hancock? What the hell does Hancock have to do with anything?_

‘He took you in, Bobbi. And you’re stealing from him?’ Fahrenheit was talking in a high, childish pitch, that somehow managed to also have a dangerous, dark undercurrent in it, like a broken music box full of explosives. 

Tristan tried to make out any change in Bobbi’s face in his peripheral vision, not wanting to let Fahrenheit’s tense form out of his sight. Every time he had passed Hancock’s bodyguard, he’d felt a shudder go through him, as if she was the embodiment of unreliability. Bobbi made not a single move, however, not even an attempt at trying to refute the claim. Tristan felt a very strong urge to distance himself from this whole endeavour. Right now. Violently. 

‘Mel was right. This isn’t Diamond City,’ he stated. They had both complained about Bobbi’s tight-lipped behaviour. Might as well try and get Mel out of this circus as well. He made sure he spoke loud enough for Fahrenheit to overhear. 

‘So what?’ Bobbi’s carping sounded. ‘This doesn’t change anything. It’s still the same job.’

Tristan made a loud, protesting sound, emphasizing it with a step away from Bobbi. She rolled her eyes at him, but his actions felt, if anything, like an understatement if anything. He wanted to toss the nearest gutted car in her face. Before Tristan could do that, or give any other, perhaps more levelled response, Fahrenheit spoke again. 

‘I see the rest of you are in the dark about this.’ She snorted. ‘Nice, No-Nose.’

Tristan felt a slight hope that maybe he would make it out alive of this shit-show after all. 

‘You all just broke into Hancock’s storeroom. You know, Hancock? The mayor of Goodneighbor.’

_Oh. I know._

‘Dammit, Bobbi,’ Mel all but shouted.

Bobbi turned to them, white knuckles around her weapon hinting at her not being as calm as she tried to sound. ‘Listen, guys, I know this isn’t what you expected. But there are still a ton of caps on the line here.’

Tristan almost imperceptibly angled the rifle in his hands in Bobbi’s direction, rather than in Fahrenheit’s. Bobbi froze in the tiny lean she had started towards Mel and Tristan. A slight desperate tension found its way into her voice as she continued. 

‘Help me take her out and all of it is ours.’ 

Tristan shook his head and Mel threw out his hands towards Bobbi, much louder in his incredulity at her words than Tristan. 

‘This is Hancock we’re ripping off here. The guy _tends to hold grudges_,’ Mel said through clenched teeth. 

Again, Tristan saw the image of Hancock producing a knife out of nowhere, sinking it several times into a man’s gut, barely blinking; all sinister gleaming eyes and sanguine energy. Tristan felt momentarily lightheaded. 

‘Counteroffer.’ Fahrenheit’s commanding voice shook Tristan from his brief disconnect with reality. ‘Just go back into your tunnel and we can forget this ever happened. What do you say?’

Tristan didn’t want to talk to Bobbi. Preferably ever again. But he also realized that Bobbi was the one he would have to talk down here; he and Mel were basically already baring their throats to Fahrenheit. 

‘Come on, Bobbi, at least if we leave now, we leave with our lives.’ He tried to make it sound as if they were still on the same side in this. 

Bobbi gave him a dark look and a shotgun-tensing of her jaw, before her whole body relaxed and a long breath ran over her lips. 

‘Well shit,’ she muttered. ‘You’re right. I’m not one to give up, but I know when I’m outmatched. Let’s go.’

‘I’ll go up and make sure everything’s alright with uh…’ Tristan nodded towards Fahrenheit. 

‘Good idea. See you back in Goodneighbor,’ Bobbi said, and Tristan could see she almost reached out to clap Tristan on the shoulder, but he instinctively drew back from even her inclination to do so, and she instead backed away with a submissive smile. 

_Hopefully I will never see you again._

He watched Bobbi and Mel leave before he turned around to make it up on Fahrenheit’s ledge. He tried to tell himself that this was all exactly what he had just said. Just to double check she wouldn’t come after them and shoot them in the back five minutes later. It wasn’t true. 

‘You made the right choice,’ Fahrenheit said as Tristan heaved himself up the ladder and eventually to his feet. Something about Fahrenheit’s glare made it difficult to even stand straight in front of her. He tried to seem casual. He doubted he succeeded. 

‘Bobbi lied to us. I’m _glad_ it shook out this way.’ _Well, that was pushing it._.

Fahrenheit’s eyebrows tensed in an uncertain direction. ‘I was itching for a fight, but I guess this works too.’

Tristan swallowed. 

‘Here, take this. A token, for doing the right thing.’ She reached down behind the crates she had been leaning against and, with a loud screeching sound dragged out a huge minigun. With a kick, she pushed it over towards Tristan. 

Was this a joke? There was a constant, very small smile on Fahrenheit’s lips, and it always seemed as if she was mocking anything she laid her eyes on. She… wanted him to just casually pick that thing up and waltz out of here? Is this a challenge? Did she want something to laugh about with Hancock later? 

‘Hancock will be happy to hear about your loyalty. You should go pay your respects in person. It’s best to stay on his good side. Trust me.’

The thought of the ghoul jerked Tristan into action, and that in itself made him uncomfortable. He bent down, happy to notice that the thing was heavy, but not immovable in any way. With a little bit of luck, he would be able to carry this thing outside and feign a brave face the entire way. Fahrenheit seemed unable to stop one of her eyebrows to shoot up in something that _might_ be an impressed face as Tristan lifted the large weapon and let it rest in his arms, which Tristan decided would have to be counted as the one victory of this whole stupid thing. 

//

‘Well, if it ain’t Bobbi’s little patsy.’

The drawl of Hancock’s voice was calculated but somehow managed to sound more amused than mocking. Tristan could feel his whole body tensing up at the association with Bobbi. He wanted to protest immediately to such a degree that he was instantly worried he was in a place where he might accidentally do something very embarrassing if he wasn’t careful. His eyes darted nervously to the yellow gleam at the centre of Hancock’s eyes and noticed the trademark grin spreading over the ghoul’s face before averting his gaze again.

‘Wise decision,’ Hancock said, and Tristan violently jumped as the ghoul’s hand lightly clapped his arm. It made the ghoul chuckle. Tristan felt heat shoot up from his toes all the way to the crown of his head. ‘Turning on Bobbi like that,’ Hancock finished. 

Tristan loudly cleared his throat. It was too loud, but it still felt like the _least_ awkward thing he could do. ‘So, uhm… We’re okay?’ He met Hancock’s eyes. 

The mischievous grin on the ghoul’s face quickly turned softer. ‘We are.’ He gave Tristan a quick once-over with his eyes. Then he sighed, which turned into a low sort of whine. 

‘Lemma tell ya…’ With a push, he left the wall he was leaning against, walked past Tristan and landed in one of the sofas in the room with another sigh. ‘This classy little tricorner hat of mine is getting heavy.’ He flicked the front of the hat with his index finger. 

‘Am I turning into the man? Some kind of tyrant?’ There was a sudden gravity to Hancock’s words. It sounded as if he really wanted an answer. Tristan didn’t have one. 

‘I spend all my time putting down the people I would’ve been proud to scheme with just a few years ago.’ He scowled down towards the table, his fingers lighting a cigarette without the rest of him seeming to pay any mind to it. After a long, hard drag on the cigarette, making his already gaunt cheeks into black pits on the side of his face, he looked back up at Tristan. 

‘I need to take a walk again. Get a grip on what really matters: Living free.’ The last words were given almost reverent weight, like an often-repeated promise. The silence after them was dense.

‘Can you just leave Goodneighbor? Aren’t you… the mayor?’ Tristan thought his words sounded banal following the prophetic utterance Hancock had made. 

But no offense had been taken, it seemed. Tristan thought Hancock even looked a little grateful as he jumped back to his feet with what seemed like new-found energy.

‘Hey, the mayor’s still the mayor, whether he’s “in residence” or not,’ he said with a smile, swiftly back in close proximity to Tristan, and putting the two fingers holding the cigarette lightly against his sternum. Tristan hoped Hancock didn’t hear how it made his breath hitch. It didn’t seem to be the case; without registering any effect his actions had on Tristan, the ghoul started walking in little circles as he continued talking, all the while gesticulating around himself. 

‘I’ve walked out of here plenty of times. Keeps me honest. Can’t let power get to my head. That’s not what being in charge of Goodneighbor is about.’ There seemed to be a lot more on the ghoul’s mind, but he fell silent, crossed one arm over his chest, and rested the other one on it, biting his lower lip. 

Tristan didn’t know if he read too much into this. He probably did. But it might… It might just be that he didn’t. You only live once. Ish.

‘If you’re heading out, why not come with me?’ As soon as he said it, he realized that the only thing he expected in response was a loud, barking laughter. 

Instead, the reply came rapidly enough to just seem like a continuation of what Hancock had left hanging in the air. ‘Yeah, I like it.’

Tristan felt his lips part in surprise and had no choice but to leave them as such as Hancock quickly was only a few inches away from him again, peering into his face as if he was looking for something. It was unclear if he found it. When he talked again, his voice was low-pitched, quiet. 

‘You just might be the right kind of trouble.’


	12. Bumpy Rides

‘What do you want? We don’t need any more trouble around here.’ The man’s hands were holding the gun more like a broom to shove off rodents than like a sidearm. The danger lay in chance, not in intent. That thing could go off any second if Tristan wasn’t careful. He raised his hands – the good one, and his increasingly hurting, badly wrapped up one – to try and show that he and Hancock meant no harm, armed to the teeth or not. The settler immediately lowered his weapon, auburn, unkempt moustache twitching above his dry lips. 

‘Didn’t you ask the Minutemen for help?’ Tristan tried with a small smile. 

The man’s eye went wide. ‘You’re with the Minutemen? I didn’t really think you fellas still existed.’ He put the gun down on a three-legged, wobbly sidetable. ‘We– We sent word with one of them passing traders, but honestly I never expected anything to come of it. Most people don’t put much stock in the Minutemen these days, after Quincy. Bad business, that.’ The last sentence was just a mutter. 

‘Is there something you need my help with?’ Tristan, regretfully, heard a twang of irritation make it into his voice. Everyone kept mentioning Quincy as soon as the Minutemen was brought up. The one thing that got airtime in the travelling-news-buzz of the Commonwealth was mishaps. It made sense, he supposed, but he was just waiting for someone to confront him with a loved one lost because of the Minutemen. Also, he made a mental note of never accidentally calling something that was known as the Quincy _Massacre_ a ‘mishap’ out loud.

‘Oh, yeah. I’m damn glad you’re here,’ the man replied, a wide smile shining yellow under the wiry moustache. ‘There’s a raider gang that’s been giving us trouble for weeks. Stealing food and supplies, threatening to kill us all if we don’t pony up.’

Tristan could swear he heard Hancock stifle a sound. He wasn't sure exactly to what it was a response. 

Tristan gave the man a short nod and asked him to point out exactly where the raiders were holed up on the map in his Pip-boy. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of those raiders for you.’ Animosity reduced to good and bad. Settler good. Murdering raider bad. Reprieve from politics that were coiled up in lies and emotions around his spine. 

‘Thanks, friend. If you folk are for real this time. It’ll be a welcome change for the better.’ They shook hands. It seemed like the right thing to do. 

Tristan got a _look_ from Hancock as he turned around and the two of them made it out of the tiny wooden shack into the wet-smelling night. He wondered if he would ever be able to get what Hancock’s looks meant; they all seemed to contain at least two things at the same time. He wasn’t entire sure what he meant by that, but that was the first thing that came to mind. _He always means several things._

‘What?’ Tristan said when they were out on the broken asphalt of the road again, and Hancock still shot him small glances every few seconds. 

‘Hm?’ Hancock sounded. ‘Oh, just… This feels like good work. I’m used to things being more complicated.’ 

Tristan couldn’t help but laugh. It felt genuine, and spontaneous, and very unfamiliar as far as reactions went. Hancock gave him a smile and a raised eyebrow. 

‘Just… I know exactly what you mean.’ Tristan said, ending with a content hum. 

‘Ah,’ Hancock grunted, putting his hands in the big pockets of his threadbare coat as they walked. ‘And here I thought I’d gotten myself into an uncomplicated situation for once.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Tristan said, not able to stop laughing. Then he wondered if that was too familiar, as if he insinuated that he knew what Hancock felt. But he thought back to the glimpses of Tristan Hancock had seen in Goodneighbor and felt as if it had to be true. 

A low, affirmative laugh shot out of Hancock. ‘Nah,’ he said, offering Tristan a cigarette from a half-crushed package. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ 

Tristan took the cigarette but as he was going to pull his hand back, Hancock grabbed his fingers. Tristan froze. The ghoul was eyeing the dirty, blood-stiff bandana still wrapped around Tristan’s hand. 

‘Brother, I can _smell_ that thing from here. You wanna keep that hand, you better do something about it.’ 

Tristan stared down at the hand and let Hancock take the cigarette back. He felt silly. He had, for some reason, just gotten used to the constant sting in the palm. Now that he paid actual attention to it, he realized the pain had not gotten less, it had gotten worse, and it was almost _pulsating_. 

‘Gotta say, I do have some reservations if amputation is your way of keeping things interesting,’ Hancock said with a crooked grin. 

Tristan shook his head, as if that line needed confirmation. ‘No, I… this is…’ He couldn’t help chuckling a little as he realized the irony of him being a nurse not able to take care of a simple injury when it was on himself. ‘I’m not usually this, ah… lax. Maybe we should just…’ He waved towards the side of the road in front of them, where the towering ruin of a highway gave some shelter. 

Hancock gave a nod and followed Tristan. They sat down against the massive concrete wall with a view out over the dubious flotsam and calm clucking of water meeting the shore under the bridge. Tristan turned on the flashlight on his Pip-boy, put it down beside him and loosened the stiff fabric around his hand with a sharp inhale. The sour smell of infection hit him and for a second he could almost _see_ the clinical white of fluorescent tubes, hear the beeping of medical machines, smell the other things that had previously come alongside this acrid odour – disinfectant, blood, plastic, rubber. 

‘Hey, you alright?’ Hancock grabbed Tristan’s wrist and he started at it, looking straight into Hancock’s black sclera and their yellow iris. _Or was that the pupil?_ The few hairs remaining of the ghoul’s blonde eyebrows sunk deeper over his eyes as Tristan stared into his face. 

‘I – Ah, yes, I…’ Tristan sputtered as he, too late, realized there had been a question somewhere before the ghoul’s eyes. ‘This just… looks a little worse than I thought,’ he muttered. It wasn’t a lie. The corners of his mouth tensed as he forced himself to look at what his neglect had caused. A ragged cut went across his palm, dried blood getting rehydrated by fresh fluid now pouring from the wound as the bandana was removed. Yellowish pus lined it and the smell seemed to puff out in the same beat as his slightly elevated pulse. 

‘There a reason you didn’t clean it?’ Hancock wondered.

‘I’m an idiot?’ Tristan muttered, and it got a lot more sinister weight than he intended. He gave a short, throaty grunt at himself. ‘Could you… There’s a few bottles of alcohol in my bag.’

Hancock nodded and started to rummage through Tristan’s backpack. Tristan found himself wishing Hancock wouldn’t find anything _embarrassing_, but then he realised that he had no idea what that would be. He heard the clinking of glass, probably indicating Hancock had found the place where Tristan kept the bottles. With a small grunt, the ghoul pulled out a dark brown bottle and peered at the paper-meshwork making up the remnants of the label on it. 

‘Bourbon!’ he announced. ‘Always found that to go well with wound gone bad.’ He grinned, his voice sinking into a deeper register the further into the sentence he got. He unscrewed the bottle and sniffed it, then took a large draft, before putting the bottle in Tristan’s good hand. 

‘Wouldn’t pour anything on that without a buzz first,’ he continued, nodding towards the mess of a wound. 

Tristan just drank. One glug, then several more. The liquid warmth spread quickly, to his chest, down his legs, quickly settling in his head. If he didn’t have had company, he was unsure he would’ve stopped until the bottle was empty. 

He expected at least a _look_ from Hancock as he titled his head back into upright position again, but the ghoul’s gaze was fixed on Tristan’s bad hand with a concerned frown. It didn’t even seem as if he feigned ignorance – that was just a reasonable amount for Tristan to drink. 

‘You won’t be able to pour enough on that yourself,’ Hancock said, grabbing the bottle from Tristan’s hand before he could stop him. ‘Plus, I think that could use a good _scrub_, honestly.’

‘I was a nurse,’ Tristan protested.

Hancock snorted. ‘Good to know. Doubt that somehow magically deadened your nerve-ends, though?’ 

Tristan grunted. He picked up the bandana and then quickly decided against what he almost had done. ‘Could you find something… cleaner than that?’ he said, tossing the foul piece of cloth into the water in front of them. 

Hancock angled Tristan’s open backpack so that the pale green light from the Pip-boy shone into it. After som digging and pulling at things that he seemed to deem as dirty as the discarded bandana, his hand emerged with something light grey, and a small sound of triumph from the ghoul. It was a tank top. It had only a few stains on it, at least. Hancock threw it at Tristan, who forgot that catching was a thing you did with your hands, and the slightly dust-smelling fabric hit his face before landing in his lap. 

‘I think that means you’re drunk enough,’ Hancock said with a chuckle. 

Tristan gave an incomprehensible mutter, somewhere between a protest and a confirmation, and then put the tank top into his own mouth. 

‘G-t -n wi ih,’ he mumbled behind it, nodding towards his hand. When the ghoul didn’t immediately move, Tristan looked up at him and just barely managed to catch the last of a momentary slack-jawed staring Hancock seemed to have been up to. Upon meeting Tristan’s eyes, the ghoul loudly cleared his throat and quickly looked away. Tristan narrowed his eyes, booze-dulled thoughts looking for an explanation and quickly losing track of where he even started looking. Hancock grabbed Tristan’s wrist firmly, almost harshly, with another, though softer, throat-clearing. 

What Hancock then did reminded Tristan of himself and all the shots he had given people over two hundred years ago. That timing, when you’re always just ahead of the patient trying to prepare themselves. Tristan was just going to exhale to prepare, when a searing, burning pain surged through his entire arm. He felt his consciousness stagger as Hancock’s uneven fingers rubbed the coagulated blood and pus around the cut, continuing to pour the bourbon steadily as he did so. Tristan couldn’t help attempting to pull away, but since it was a reflex he tried to battle, Hancock managed to keep his grip around Tristan’s wrist. He worked in silence, and obviously as quickly as he could, while also making sure that now that it was being done, it better be done properly. 

Tristan angled his head backwards, forcing wet, loud breaths through the tank between his teeth. He felt spittle run down the side of his mouth, the fabric already soaked. He went somewhere else in his mind, where every breath was a little, comparted piece of eternity in itself; tried to not think of the time remaining until this was over, just focusing on that time was passing at all. The pain had stopped being a sensation in his hand and now felt as if it was rummaging around in all the nerve clusters of his joints; spasms travelling at the speed of his heartbeats. 

When the direct impact ended, he struggled with the aftershock for a few minutes; it was as if the rest of his body had to catch up with time itself. The tank fell out of his mouth and he heard himself think that he really should close his mouth, but he couldn’t remember how to do that right now. His breathing was laboured, slow, cramping. 

Far away, he could hear Hancock fidgeting around, and the sound of plastic zippers being pulled. 

‘Ah…’ he heard the ghoul whisper. ‘Thought a nurse might have something like this,’ Hancock added, louder. 

Still leaning his head against the concrete behind him, Tristan looked down to where Hancock was sitting and spotted the bright red cross on his always well-stocked medical bag. _Should probably had told him earlier where that was_, he dully thought, finally managing to make his brain close his mouth. He tried to give Hancock a nod, but nothing happened. 

‘Here,’ Hancock muttered, placing what felt like a glass bottle in Tristan’s hand. He brought it up to his face and saw the almost empty bottle of bourbon and happily guided it to his lips again. _Bless this man._

The careful, soft motions against his hand that Hancock was now up to – putting a compress, and then fastening gauze with surgical adhesives – was practically painful in itself, because sensation had violently found its way back to Tristan's skin. Every brush against it felt like needles. He breathed harshly through his nose, bottle firmly planted to his lips, calmly, slowly swallowing small amounts of it until Hancock was done. 

‘There we go,’ the ghoul declared, unscrewing a bottle of vodka that Tristan hadn’t noticed Hancock had pulled from the bag. ‘I will take the total number of _zero_ criticisms regarding my handiwork,’ he continued before putting the white bottle to his lips and drinking eagerly. 

Tristan sat up straighter, finally feeling as if his body was done playing catch-up with his senses and inspected the dressing. It looked fine, and it smelled very strongly of bourbon. 

‘Thanks,’ Tristan murmured, moving his digits around a little. It hurt. He didn’t know if it was all placebo, but it felt better. Cleaner. As if it could heal. 

‘Hey, I practically got to see you with a gag ball, we’re all winners here.’ No shame, but also not a clear-cut intent. Hancock just gave Tristan a quick glance as he said it, before taking another long swig from the bottle. A joke or an invitation? _Or both._

Hancock stood up. Tristan watched him, wondering how he did it so steadily. He had trouble keeping his own head still on his spine.

‘Guess this is where we spend the night, huh,’ Hancock said, gazing out over the black waters in front of them. ‘Hope you’ve a habit of _sometimes_ sleeping in a bed.’ He turned around and Tristan could just barely make out the pip-boy light reflecting in his eyes underneath the tricorn hat. ‘Or is that reserved for the times you’re in my state house?’ 

It sounded as if he was smiling, Tristan was almost completely sure of it, but he couldn’t confirm it in the gloom. There was something else there as well. Tristan couldn’t tell if it was a threat, or derision or… He didn’t know. He forgot to notice if the question was rhetorical or not. Hancock speaking again seemed to confirm that it was. 

‘Gotta go, uh…’ Tristan could make out Hancock making a lazy gesture towards his own crotch and then towards some direction away from where Tristan was sitting. 

Tristan’s backpack was right next to him, and all the zippers were undone. He reached into one and pulled out a sad roll of toilet paper, throwing it in Hancock’s general direction, realizing too late that the chances of him catching it were slim. 

But he did, though not gracefully. He snorted as he finally had the little roll steadily in his hand, having almost dropped it twice. 

‘Call me if you need help,’ Tristan mumbled, hoping he managed to sound clearer about that he was joking than Hancock bothered with. 

‘You wish,’ the ghoul snickered, marching off into the darkness. 

//

‘Fuck.’ Tristan’s voice was small; a shocked inhale. 

It felt as if everything slowed to a crawl as he watched the burning bottle vault through the air towards a beautifully marbled, enormous spill of oil. Immediately, he tried to take his and Hancock’s situation in. They were _surrounded_ by cars and probably oil-filled machines. 

A loud, melodious crack as the bottle met the ground. He heard Hancock completely lose his breath as Tristan violently hooked his arm around the ghoul’s waist and all but dragged him alongside himself sprinting as fast as he could away from the shockwave swelling up from behind them. 

With a grunt, he threw himself, and Hancock, down on the floor, behind a wide steel beam, pressing Hancock’s face against himself, to shield him from the billowing flames. He felt the stubble on the side of his face sizzle as a wave of the explosion almost made it all the way up to the two of them. It seemed as if the rest of the fire was spreading further into the room, away from them, however, and Tristan whispered small prayers about the building not collapsing around them under his breath. 

When the most intense consequences of the small flying bottle had subsided – after a few false alarms that had resulted in another wave of loud exploding cars – Tristan could conclude that the building seemed to hold, and that Hancock, up until now, had had a very tight grip around Tristan’s waist. He noticed it now because the ghoul relaxed a little, carefully peaking up around the beam they were behind. He still let his arm rest around Tristan, however, using him as a support to not fall backwards as he tried to survey the room behind them. 

Tristan heard a broken, strained, commanding yell from further into the room. At the sound, he could see Hancock’s face tensing up, and the grip as well, fingers digging into the side of Tristan’s ribs, in between pieces of his armour, bunching up the fabric of the vault suit. He could’ve denied the intimacy of the position they were in, had Hancock not turned his head to face Tristan now, inches from it, causing Tristan to lean back a little. It didn’t seem to faze the ghoul to be this close at all, but he also didn’t linger more than a few tense seconds, where his gaze moved from Tristan’s, then quickly to his mouth, before he released the grip around Tristan’s body and jumped to his feet. 

Tristan felt a little… confused, he guessed. Adrenaline was still rushing through his body, and the strange closeness just now hadn’t exactly halted that. He grunted as he got to his feet as well and noticed that Hancock had a very troubled look on his face, one arm around his own body, shotgun pendulating where it hung from his fingers, and the other hand supporting his chin. He had a deep frown on his face. 

Suddenly, the ghoul threw out his hands with a dejected sigh. The shotgun clattered at the abrupt motion. ‘Ach!’ he grunted. ‘I can’t think of a _single_ good one-liner about cars.’ He flashed a grin at Tristan. ‘Let’s just shoot these suckers.’ 

But then he stopped in the step he had begun to take and spun around gallantly, red robe billowing around him as he moved. ‘Oh, and, thanks for saving my life, there, brother.’

//

Tristan learned that the settlers called their little outpost Tenpines Bluff and when he brought them the good news, they were very grateful, but also seemed a little incredulous. Tristan tried to not take offense, figuring it had to do with the bad reputation of the Minutemen, not what he exuded himself. 

He felt tired and shaky, the hangover not possible to keep at bay with battle-nerves anymore. When he asked if it was okay if he took some time to turn a half-demolished little shack on the settlers’ land into more of a shelter for the night, they had no objections, other than trying to make him and Hancock take their beds for the night instead. Tristan loudly protested, and thought he noticed how Hancock found that to be a bit of a dumb objection to have. But, nevertheless, the ghoul helped Tristan gather planks and odd pieces of metal lying around the grounds, and they borrowed hammer and nails from the settlers to finally, when night fell again, arrive at a roof-like construction between the centuries-old walls of the house. 

When they were done, had put out their sleeping bags as well as made a fire in an old oil drum, Tristan leaned against one of the mould-spotted walls with a long sigh. His legs were still shaky. He closed his eyes and scratched his scalp roughly, getting grime under his nails. Hearing Hancock moving in under the roof from outside, he also noticed how the ghoul’s footfalls didn’t stop when he expected. Tristan threw his eyes open to find the ghoul’s face an inch from his own. His breath bounced off the scar-ridges of Hancock’s skin. 

‘We gonna do something about this?’ the ghoul said, voice low but clear. He nestled a hand between Tristan’s hanging arm and his hip, resting it against the wall, leaning his body in as close as his face was. Apart from where Hancock's hand was, they weren’t touching, but Hancock moving closer still drew a long exhale from Tristan as if someone were pushing against his chest. He was struggling to understand, both that his interest seemed reciprocated, and also how much _more_ of an interest this was than what he had led himself to believe. It felt as if static surged through his inner thighs, already tight vault suit stretching around his groin. He wanted to do something but felt paralysed by everything that was happening. 

Hancock’s face changed. The small smile disappeared; he tensed his lips, frowning, and begun to lean away from Tristan. 

‘Maybe I mis–’

Tristan cut him off – realising what uncertainty his petrified inaction caused – by grabbing the lapels of the ghoul’s coat and pulling him into a hard kiss. Hancock changed back into his initial approach quickly, grabbing Tristan by the hips and pushing him back into the wall with a thud. 

The tricorn fell to the floor as Tristan’s hands reached up and grabbed the stringy, horsehair like blonde mess on Hancock’s head. He didn’t look like any other ghoul Tristan had met, and it wasn’t just having hair that was the difference. _Maybe he isn't a ghoul at all. Maybe this is just some other Commonwealth thing._

The kiss between them wasn’t tender. Tongues and lips were squeezed between teeth. Hancock imitated Tristan’s hold of his hair, jerking Tristan away from him, surprising him in how strong he was, despite his lanky frame. The pain in his scalp caused Tristan to let go of the hair he was grabbing, hands falling down to meet the coarse fabric of Hancock’s frilled shirt. He tried to go back to meet Hancock’s mouth with his own, but the ghoul stopped him, grinning down at his forced back head, teasingly tracing his tongue along the inside of Tristan’s upper lip. Tristan groaned at the soft, measured motion clashing hard against the nails digging into his head. 

Deftly, and quickly, Hancock’s free hand managed to find all the clasps on the pieces of the armor strapped to Tristan’s chest and they, one by one, fell to the floor. Hancock put a finger at the top of the zipper to the suit and, with a nail against Tristan’s skin, very slowly pulled it open, all while staring down into Tristan’s bent-back face. When he had finally gotten the zipper all the way down, past Tristan’s navel, he softened the hold on Tristan’s hair and met his released head in a deep kiss, which was slightly more tongue than teeth now. 

Not feeling the same need to cramp in pain, Tristan’s hands found the opening of Hancock’s coat and brushed it off him, revealing a loose, once-white shirt hanging off bony shoulders. There was an almost imperceptible shift in Hancock’s posture as the coat fell to the floor and Tristan wasn’t sure if he made it up. The ghoul exhaled through his nose as Tristan’s hands moved the heavy fabric from his shoulders, and tensed up for a fraction of a second, before decidedly closing the tiny gap between their bodies again and pressing Tristan against the wall. 

As Tristan’s hardon met Hancock’s thigh nuzzling in between his legs, the hint of hesitation in the ghoul seemed incredibly distant. A smirk flashed in front of Tristan before Hancock leaned in to breathe against Tristan’s ear, which produced a helpless moan in him. 

‘Well, well,’ Hancock murmured in Tristan’s ear. The hot breath, and Hancock’s leg pressing up against him made Tristan lose his breath. Hancock pressed harder, and Tristan got said breath back in a small yelp which he tried to bury in Hancock’s shoulder. He breathed, open-mouthed, against the scraggly, pink skin, teeth grazing it. As soon as Tristan’s teeth met Hancock he jerked his hips against Tristan in a much less controlled manner than he had done everything else. Tristan heard a breathy laugh escape the ghoul. 

Hancock grunted against the nape of Tristan’s neck, which was exposed in his leaning against the ghoul’s shoulder. His hand ticklishly grazed the skin there and found their way up into Tristan’s hair again, causing a shudder through his entire body. He felt his cock twitch against Hancock, but also that the ghoul was just as hard as he was. It sent his head reeling and for a second, it felt as if he’d come right there and then. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, leaning back again, into the wall behind. 

The ghoul’s usually so steady, cocksure gaze had a slightly hazy quality, but it did nothing to diminish their intensity. Tristan closed his eyes hard, shaking his head. 

‘Please…’ he pleaded, unsure for what. 

Hancock decided for him. With some pulling and tearing, he managed to get both their dicks out of their respective confines, but then he stopped, resting his hand on Tristan's hipbone. Tristan opened his eyes, trying to signal a question through his ragged breathing, when he felt Hancock’s uneven hand grab his own and guide it toward Tristan’s cock. Confused, he let his hand rest against it. 

‘Go ahead,’ Hancock said, placing both his hands either side of Tristan’s body but stepping back a little to make some space between them. ‘I wanna watch you.’

Heat flashed over Tristan’s face and his cock jerked violently in response in his hand at Hancock’s demand. He swallowed. Then he started to carefully move his hand, exhaling unsteadily at the sensation. Hancock’s gaze went from Tristan’s face down towards the movement of his hand and Tristan could hear him groan silently, approvingly, in response. 

Closing his eyes, Tristan inclined his head upwards. He heard one of Hancock’s hands leaving the wall beside him and jumped a little as he felt it meet his own skin. It trailed a collarbone, not soft enough to be ticklish, but not hard enough to compensate for anything. Tristan moaned at it, trying to stop himself, causing it to hitch in his throat, but then letting out a much louder one as Hancock’s hand rapidly sunk down to find a nipple instead. Tristan’s hips jolted from the wall, jerking hand meeting Hancock’s dick as they did, earning an amused ‘hah’ from the ghoul. Twisting the nipple hard, he leaned in closer again, Tristan’s hand making a rhythmic sound as it brushed against the fabric of Hancock’s shirt. The ghoul’s mouth was at Tristan’s ear again. 

‘Fucking hell, you’re beautiful,’ he muttered breathily, voice low and thick. It sent an unexpected surge through Tristan and he hissed, realising he had nothing to stop it with. 

‘Shit,’ he breathed, noticing how Hancock didn’t stay away from touching himself now either. With his free hand digging into the ridges of Hancock’s back, he buried what would otherwise be a very loud yell in Hancock’s shoulder, as he came all over his and Hancock’s hand. In the middle of it, he felt the ghoul in his grip tense up and grind against him, voicing a similar sound as Tristan, but deeper, quieter, into the man’s sweat-damp skin on the side of his neck. 

After a while, trying to still their breathing in the embrace they tried to keep balanced, Hancock propped Tristan up against the wall with a small chuckle. He looked around him, found his opened bag quickly and reached into some side pouch for a piece of cloth, which he harshly wiped himself off with before pressing it into Tristan’s open hands. 

‘There we go,’ the ghoul said with a clear, carefree lilt. ‘Should ease the tension for a while.’ He winked, before shoving himself back into his pants and swiftly getting both his coat and hat back on. 

Tristan felt instantly self-conscious, vulnerable, with his unzipped suit and dishevelled whole state. He threw down his eyes and stared trying to clean himself off a bit. 

‘Just gonna make sure no ferals are lurking in the bushes before we go to bed,’ Hancock continued, while already half-out the door. 

Tristan slowly pulled his zipper back up. The sound cut through the silence Hancock left loud as an unwanted, creaking floorboard. Right now, he felt very unsure that any of that had been for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again - using a mod for Hancock so that he looks more like his concept art and less like all other ghouls in the commonwealth :)


	13. Fire

They turned a corner and Hancock froze in his step so abruptly Tristan couldn’t help jumping at it himself. Confused, he followed to where Hancock was staring. The ghoul’s dark eyes were unimpressed trailing the dull green of the wall around Diamond City. Tristan looked back at Hancock, who now directed his glum face towards him. 

‘We’re… just passing by, or…?’ he muttered, groping around in his pocket, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it swiftly. The yellow gleam threw angry streaks of shadow around the uneven face of the ghoul. 

‘No, I… We’re going- I mean, you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to, but…’ Tristan tried to staple together comprehensible words while simultaneously remembering the general idea about ghouls in Diamond City. He had had a headache for a week. Probably longer. Could he blame that for this oversight? It didn’t matter. 

‘Damn it, I’m sorry, I forgot about…’ He gesticulated, frustrated, towards the green metal monument next to them. 

‘Maybe I should be flattered.’ It was hard to determine the nature both of Hancock’s voice and face as he said it. He was grinning, but he also looked as if he was going to bite Tristan in half. Tristan frowned at his own thought. 

Hancock continued with a chuckle. ‘I am not letting these motherfuckers keep me out. Besides,’ he pointedly dragged deep on the cigarette, letting out a mist of smoke in Tristan’s direction, ‘I’ve got you to protect me, yeah?’ He winked. 

Tristan swallowed, nodding awkwardly, to which Hancock shook his head slightly with a small smile. He said nothing, however, just motioned for Tristan to lead the way. 

Night had fallen. The moon offered a spirited attempt at providing light, but a stubborn haze draped the entire Commonwealth sky. Hints of shadows made shapes blurred, and the various lights around the old Fenway Park looked like ghostly fires in myriad colors, floating disembodied around the grounds. One could make out the faint movements of some of the absurdly dressed city guards, slowly making the rounds. 

Tristan had stopped at the top landing of the stairs leading down onto the field. The foggy sight looked eerily distant and a curious quiet, uncommon to the place, made it even more so. He realized it was probably later than he had thought. In his peripheral vision he thought he saw a strangely hard look on Hancock’s face, which he seemed to snap out of as Tristan turned a little towards him. 

‘Lead the way, bodyguard,’ he murmured to Tristan, perhaps also affected by the unusual stillness of the place. 

‘Heh,’ Tristan sounded back and then finally started to make his way down the stairs. 

He thought the mist had helped Hancock stay hidden from the prejudiced eyes of the guards enough for them to make it through the city and back out again without incident. But then the two of them turned a corner out into the more open part of the field, furthest from the entrance, and Tristan almost hit his teeth on the grille of one of the city guards’ helmets. 

‘Shi--’ he hissed, instinctively holding out his arm to stop – protect? – Hancock. Even though Tristan was staring into the face of the startled guard, he could see Hancock looking at his arm, and then up into his face with a bemused grin. 

The guard had not even a hint of amusement on his face. He first looked at Tristan, and Tristan could tell there was a hint of recognition there. Some action of his had made an impact. Hope it was something good.

Then the guard turned to look at the person besides Tristan, and all but recoiled at the sight. Tristan couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the exaggerated action. He felt his muscles tense up and couldn’t find a reason to put the protective arm in front of the ghoul down. He did wish Hancock wouldn’t grin quite as wide as he did into the face of the now borderline furious guard. 

But then the guard looked back at Tristan again, a veil of feigned control falling over his face. Tristan could see his eyes darting over the assortment of weapons strapped to an almost ridiculous number of places on Tristan’s lean frame. The guard took a step back, squaring his shoulders in some sort of inadequate display of power. _We could take you out in a heartbeat, buddy._

‘That thing tame?’ the guard grunted, nodding towards Hancock.

‘Hardly,’ Hancock snapped, but the grin was still there, albeit smaller, sharper. 

Tristan felt a violent pressure at the base of his spine at Hancock’s word. The ghoul was practically _begging_ the guard to overstep. But it seemed as if it was a little too effective. Tristan could see the protruding Adam’s apple of the guard bob quickly; the sole indication of how he felt about the ghoul’s stance. 

The guard snorted. ‘His actions are yours,’ he said to Tristan, a little too loudly. 

_If you knew me, you’d say that the other way around._ He was close to saying it, but he stopped himself. Close to tired enough to start any shit he could get a whiff of. He gave the guard an insincere, close-lipped smile. 

‘We’re on our _absolute_ best behavior tonight, uh… officer,’ he said, almost managing to make it sound true. He used his still outstretched arm to push Hancock in the direction they were going, away from this tense encounter. 

‘And let’s not think about how little that means…’ he continued to mutter when they were out of ear shot. Hancock chuckled, following Tristan who had now set off in a steadier pace, ready to be out of here again. 

‘This place is a fucking shithole,’ Tristan continued to mutter, surprised at how much he felt that right now. He had never appreciated the tiring prejudice of this place, but now he felt as if it was the culmination of some kind of tragedy of humanity. Everything that had happened, and this was still the way people chose to live. 

Practically stomping along, he was quickly at the base of the small metal stair leading up to the radio shack. He supposed this was the place of the owner of the terrified radio-voice he had sometimes heard, and quickly changed from, on the radio. 

‘You, ah… got an interview with Travis or something? Little late for that?’ Hancock wondered as he realized Tristan seemed to have found his destination. 

Tristan shrugged and leaned against the weird little metal oval, making out music from inside, though no voice. _They wouldn’t happen at the same time, I suppose._ He knocked carefully on the door and immediately heard a voice crack into a violent falsetto-squeak, alongside what sounded like paper scattering. With another shrug, Tristan simply opened the door. It creaked violently.

Breath trembling as if he had seen the actual face of death, Travis the radio host stared wide-eyed at the blue-clad, far from clean, dusty black-haired man in the doorway to the shack. His shaking irises darted panicky across all the weaponry strapped to Tristan and tried to shrink even further into his rickety chair. Tristan felt the need to raise his hands as a peace-offering, as if he was trying to near a scared animal. 

‘Travis?’ he tried, trying to be as soft-spoken as he could. The young man simply nodded tremblingly. 

‘Sorry about the ah… hour,’ Tristan said, scratching his scalp, realizing he should simply have waited until daytime. _Nothing makes sense anymore. What am I doing?_

A soft clearing of a throat, coming from Travis, brought Tristan out of the frozen state he had ended up in. 

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Tristan continued, shaking his head and getting off his backpack. He did it too quickly at first, realizing it scared Travis even more, so he slowed down and kept talking.

‘I-ah… Have something I found that can,’ he pulled out a white box with nobs on, and wires coming out the back. He wished they didn’t look so abnormally clean. Travis stared at the contraption. ‘That can increase the range of the radio station.’ Three little boxes were now stacked in front of him. He _really_ wished they weren’t so clean. He wished Hancock had stayed outside after all. Why hadn’t he thought this through? A pearl of cold sweat ran like a strong, chilled fingertip along his spine. 

‘I think I could get them installed pretty easily if you want.’ He heard how it sounded. Why the hell would Travis say yes to this? Was that his explanation? Did he honestly think he was going to buy that? 

Travis, looking two sizes too small for his big red jacket, alternately looked at the shining stack of boxes and the comparably very matte man sitting behind them. He jerked his head a little higher as he only now also noticed the ghoul in a tricorner hat peering in through the doorway. Hancock lazily saluted Travis, who replied with a shaking, vague smile and a nod. 

‘Oh, I… that’s… that’s very nice of you, I, ah…’ Travis stammered. 

_Really?_

‘You’re uhm… you’re welcome to, ah… _install_ them, if that’s, ah… If that’s possible, everything here is so, ah… badly wired together as it… as it is, just, uhm… You know, don’t, ah, don’t… Try not to make anything worse, yeah? Haha.’ The last noise sounded more as if someone tried to learn how to pronounce h and a following each other than a laugh. 

_Better do this before he comes to his senses, I guess. _

//

‘You’re _seriously_ not gonna start this conversation, then? Gonna have me do that for ya?’

The sun was almost peeking over the jagged line of dilapidated buildings in front of them. They had walked, in silence, from Diamond City, north. Now they sat down, Hancock stretched out in a very uncomfortable-looking, stuffing-less metal deck chair and Tristan on the edge of the slime-covered swimming pool the deck chair had once provided suitable rest by. Tristan’s muddy boot just barely managed to reach down to kick around a network of wild tarberries floating atop the greenish liquid in the pool. He’d honestly not thought about the fact that they had been completely quiet up until now. He was tired; he wished their days and nights weren’t completely flipped around, no matter how much of a night person he was – he still hated being up when the sun rose. And now he wished he _had_ been the one to initiate this conversation. It felt all kinds of wrong that he wasn’t. So now he was both tired _and_ ashamed. Not that he was unused to that.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and then continued, louder, ‘No, I won’t. I just… I’m not sure how to start.’ It was true. For every thing he thought about starting with, he found himself having to go back another step to explain that one. The institute. Shaun. Nora. The apocalypse.

‘Well, where did the shiny white boxes come from?’ A hint of… anger? Maybe. Frustration? Tristan didn’t want to look at the ghoul. He couldn’t deal with how he always felt slightly wobbly as soon as he met his eyes. There was a tinge of unreality to everything that he tried to keep at bay, though he worried that that was what he had been doing for too long now, and his defenses were inevitably rupturing.

‘The Institute.’

The skeletal deck chair sharply creaked under Hancock. Adding an “it isn’t what it sounds like” felt wrong; he had little idea what Hancock was thinking right now, although it felt safe enough to assume it wasn’t anything good. 

Tristan let his eyes dart towards Hancock. His hand, maybe involuntarily, had inched towards the shotgun lying on the table next to him. 

‘I’m not _part_ of the Institute, or, well… _they_ think I am, but-’ Tristan dragged his hands through his hair and exhaled sharply through his nose. Momentarily he considered drowning himself among the tarberries he was staring into. 

‘I’m undercover there. For the Railroad.’

‘Oh.’ The answer came quickly; it sounded surprised, but relieved.

‘I wish that was the whole answer, though,’ Tristan heard himself saying. Then, he didn’t know how to continue. Or, he did, he just didn’t want to.

‘Can I… have a cigarette?’ he said quietly, after having patted himself down half-heartedly, remembering tossing his last pack onto a foul-smelling heap of meat outside a super mutant-holdout a while back.

Without a word, Hancock tossed him the package. The throw was a little too hard, and Tristan almost dropped it into the muck underneath his feet. His heart pounded at a ridiculous rate in response. For some reason, it felt as if, had he dropped it, everything would been lost. Trying to get his pulse to slow down, he stared at the crinkled package for several seconds before managing to get a cigarette out of it. _What everything?_

He didn’t know if the little stick helped his nerves, but it did give his hands something to do. 

‘MacCready said that there was a story going around Goodneighbor that I come from the time before the bombs, so I guess you’ve heard that too. It’s true. I do. I was put into cryogenic sleep for two hundred years. Me… Me and my family. My wife, Nora, and my son. Shaun.’ He heard himself talking as if he was sitting next to himself. 

‘I lost… I woke up, once, during the sleep. My wife was killed then. And my son was abducted. I woke up again, sixty years later. But I, ah… I didn’t know it had been that long. It had just happened, to me. Everything had just happened to me. I saw the bombs drop. That was… just a few months ago for me. I…’

He cleared his throat. He took another cigarette. He could get Hancock new ones later. 

‘Shaun is older than I am.’ He swallowed. ‘No. Shaun is dead.’ Three drags on the cigarette. One angry, two less so. ‘Not true either. That’s unfair. He’s just turned into something I didn’t want him to become. Guess I’m far from the first parent to have that happen.’

He felt his shoulder slump, as if he couldn’t keep his back straight any longer. ‘He’s the leader of the Institute. He hates the Commonwealth. He’s deluded. He thinks you’re all… He thinks we’re all just junk to be thrown out.’

Now that he knew he was going to say everything, he didn’t feel as if he had to hurry. Although lingering for too long would also make it too real. 

‘He’s got cancer. He can’t be cured. The irony is… Yeah. So, he made _me_ acting director. The rest of the Institute is – rightfully so – not happy about that. But I have to make the most of it. And I have to… stop them. Stop him.’

The sun peeking through the still hazy skies gave the moss-gray surface of the pool-sludge a deceptively pleasant glittery sheen. Tristan remembered where the conversation had started. 

‘The boxes. The boxes _are_ actually to amplify the radio signal. But also, to give the Institute access to it. To broadcast over it. I have to keep up the act of being on their side until the Railroad is ready to strike. It’s getting difficult. I don’t think anyone there trusts me. Shaun is just… blinded by something, I couldn’t tell you what. He looks at me as if I am some sort of savior. I should feel bad. I should feel… something.’

He heard his voice break. ‘But I don’t.’

Wondrous, moving shapes reflected up on his legs and boots, the sun digging through the broken pattern of debris and vegetation in the water. He felt empty. Everything felt unreal and solidified at the same time. 

‘Huh.’ It was a soft sound from the ghoul. ‘I’d like to think I’ve got pretty vivid imagination but that… was not what I expected.’

Tristan scoffed and kicked a cluster of berries. They turned into a purple-brownish mush on the toe of his boot. 

‘I’ve not told… all of that before, I…’ He clenched his jaw. ‘Could we talk about something else for a while?’

‘Sure,’ Hancock said, but didn’t continue. Tristan realized following this was a bit of a… difficult task. 

The metal chair creaked. ‘You know, I ain’t proud of having to put you through that stuff with Bobbi.’

The change of topic was so welcome it felt as if physical warmth spread in Tristan’s chest. He was still a little stiff from the impact of everything he had said, however, and didn’t manage to show his appreciation in any other way that a small smile he was sure Hancock couldn’t see from where he was sitting. 

‘That sort of dictatorial shit. Ain’t usually my style,’ Hancock continued, muttering.

It wasn’t a cheerful tone the ghoul had chosen, but that would probably have clashed too hard with what Tristan had dragged them down into anyway. Tristan straightened out his hunched spine a little.

‘She tried to dupe us both. Dealing with her was the right thing to do,’ he said, kicking the tarberries slowly floating by with a bit less gravity now.

‘True. But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s outta the picture because of us. Hell, that sorta bull’s the whole reason I became mayor in the first place. Some ass named Vic ran the town for I don’t know how long before that. Guy was scum. Used us drifters like his own personal piggy bank.’

Tristan stilled his feet. Hancock sounded as if he couldn’t help but clench his teeth as he spoke of this man. 

‘He had this goon squad he’d use to keep people in line. Every so often he’d let them off the leash, go blow off some steam on the populace at large. Folks with homes could lock their doors, but us drifters… We got it bad.’ Hancock paused with a sneer, reaching down into his shoulder bag that stood on the ground and quickly managed to get out a brown glass bottle without a label on it. There was a cork in it which he pulled out with his teeth and spit into the pool. It stayed on top of a thick patch of tarberries and broken planks. Apparently he wasn’t intending to have to cork the bottle up again. He took a long draught and then put the bottle down on the ground in Tristan’s direction. It was probably about 7 in the morning. Definitely the right time. Tristan took a swig. It tasted like barely drinkable engine fuel. 

‘There was one night, some drifter said something to them, Vic and his men.’ Hancock leaned forward as he talked, and Tristan felt as if this was a different conversation now, so he pulled his legs up from the edge of the pool and turned 90 degrees to face his ghoul companion. Hancock quickly met Tristan’s gaze, his brow low over the dark pits. 

‘They cracked him open like a can of Cram on the pavement. And we all just stood there. Did nothing.’

The anger in Hancock’s voice was like a physical force. Tristan’s pulse seemed to try and match the one it assumed Hancock had. 

‘That’s a hard choice to make. I don’t envy you.’ He heard how it sounded. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right. 

‘I appreciate you trying, but there’s no need to sugarcoat it.’ The anger was punctured by something a lot more poignant now. However, it was back as Hancock continued. ‘It was _spineless_, that way I acted.’

He leaned back a bit, picking the bottle up and drinking from it, letting it rest in his hand, balancing on his scrawny knee. 

‘I felt like less than nothing. Afterwards, I got so high, I blacked out completely. When I finally came to, I was on the floor of the Old State House. Right in front of the clothes of John Hancock.’

A hint of a smile made its way to the ghoul’s face. ‘John Hancock,’ he said, putting such weight into the two words that Tristan felt as if he was part of some ritual. ‘First American hoodlum and defender of the People.’

The smile was bigger now, and not a grin, but a genuine face of fond recollection. ‘I might’ve still been high, but those clothes spoke to me, told me what I needed to do. I smashed the case, put them on, and started a new life. As Hancock.’ 

He met Tristan’s eyes again. To him, it felt as if the ghoul was making sure Tristan had understood, properly understood. A small nod seemed to indicate that he had found what he was looking for. 

‘After that, I went clean for a bit, got organized, convinced Kleo to loan me some hardware. Got a crew of drifters together and headed out into the ruins, started training. Next time Vic’s boys went on their tear, we’d be ready for ‘em.’

Hancock’s way of making everything sound like an important, world-changing event kept Tristan’s pulse at a slightly elevated level. He had to shake it. The alcohol was already going to his head quicker than he would’ve liked. It was probably ten times stronger than anything he was used to. 

‘Okay, so I’ve seen a lot of… weird shit out here,’ he started, earning an interested look from the ghoul. ‘Just to make sure we’re on… the same level of existence here – You don’t _actually_ think the clothes of John Hancock spoke to you, right?’

Hancock laughed; a raspy, deep sound. ‘Nah, I just felt, you know, a connection. It seemed like he and I were dealing with the same shit – serious oppression.’

‘Right. I get it. Just checking. Please continue.’

‘Well, the night of, we all got loaded, let Vic’s boys get good and hammered, and burst from the windows and rooftops where we’d been hiding. They never saw it coming. We didn’t have to fire a shot.’ He paused. When he continued, his voice was ever deeper, quieter. ‘We didn’t _have_ to. But we sure fucking did. It was a massacre.’

Tristan really, really hoped that it was Hancock - that is was Hancock’s voice, his way of making everything he said exciting - that was the reason he felt blood rush to his groin right now. He really, _really_ wished it wasn’t the word “massacre” itself. He swallowed and realized Hancock had definitely heard him do so. The ghoul leaned in towards Tristan again. He wished he hadn’t. 

‘Once we’d mopped up, we strolled right into Vic’s quarters in the State House, wrapped a rope around his neck, and threw him off the balcony. And there I am, gun in hand, draped in Hancock’s duds, looking at all the people of Goodneighbor assembled below. I had to say something. That first time I said ‘em, they didn’t even feel like my words.’ He sat up a bit straighter again, holding out his hand demonstratively, affirmatively, as he continued. 

‘Of the people, for the people.’ He paused, before hunching down closer to Tristan again. ‘It was my inaugural address. Became Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor that day. And from then on, I vowed I’d never stand by and watch. Ever again.’

It was a good story. I might even be true. Actually, Tristan realized he was completely sure it was true. Hancock was close enough for Tristan to feel his breath on his face. He felt a very strong impulse to kiss him. He wanted some of this man’s fire to rub off on him.

Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned back a bit, finding the bottle next to them on the ground. ‘You fought so hard to become Mayor, why leave?’ 

Hancock leaned back in the chair fully now. Tristan thought the smile on his face looked like one of triumph. The ghoul shrugged. 

‘I ain’t really the ponderous type. When an instinct takes hold, I listen.’ Another knowing look. ‘This time around, instinct said I should join up with you. Seems it was a good one.’

Tristan flinched at how much he instantly wanted that to mean, realizing how little it possibly could. They barely knew each other. _I’m just scared of being alone_. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that was only partially true. Part of him wished he had never met this man; he felt as if he was barely keeping himself together around him.

‘I just hope you get where I was coming from,’ Hancock continued. ‘I ain’t out to bring harm to anyone that didn’t earn it.’ 

Tristan realized he was, naturally, still not trusted. How could he expect that after what Hancock had seen of him? Honestly, how could he trust himself? He was pretty sure he could be one of the people who “earned” it. 

His own spiral of self-doubt went on a lot longer than the slightly scrutinizing look from Hancock, however. The small smile on his lips was back now and he leaned over to friendlily nudge Tristan’s shoulder with the now almost empty bottle. 

‘Though I’m getting the distinct idea you got the same plan,’ he said. He let the words settle, though only momentarily. With a jerk, he bounced up from the complaining chair, and looked as if he was going to topple over for a few seconds, before steadying himself by keeping his arms horizontally with the ground. 

‘Well,’ he announced, turning to face Tristan, who cumbersomely got up from the ground, feeling as if his head weighed as much as the whole rest of his body. ‘You probably heard enough of me running my mouth for one day. Wanna get moving?’

Tristan looked into the dark eyes underneath the tricorner hat, at this very moment feeling as if he could move next to this man forever, and couldn’t stop himself before saying, ‘God, yes.’


	14. We Need a Hero

There was something unsettling about the low humming of dream-machines surrounding the dais in the middle of the room in The Memory Den. Perhaps it was the woman in the seemingly perpetual pose of expected worship on the divan on top of the dais. It seemed as if she suggested herself as a possible subject of every person’s revisited dreams. Not that Tristan could necessarily say that would be wrong; Irma was quite magnificent if you were into that kind of thing. Her gaze wasn’t slowly trailing the dreamers of the room as usual now, however, it was calmly resting on a huddled, beige figure beside the divan, who seemed in a much higher state of excitement than her. 

Tristan shot Hancock a questioning glance. The ghoul nodded, to which Tristan shrugged and started to make his way over to the middle of the room. He could make out the conversation from some way back. 

‘Thefts, m-murders, worse! Sometimes you just got to escape a little to make it through the day.’ The ghoul fell silent as Tristan’s shadow fell over Irma’s reclining body, and she gave him a warm smile and a small, dignified nod. The ghoul in the beige suit and trilby hat seemed to become even more huddled as he spun around to see who was behind him, and rapidly met and then threw down his eyes from Tristan’s. Tristan couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, based on posture alone. 

‘Escape? What do you mean?’ he tried in his softest voice, feeling as if he talked to a skittish animal. 

The ghoul’s eyes turned into little half circles as he grinned widely and instantly seemed to straighten up a bit. ‘Reliving old memories. Like Thanksgiving 2071. Ma made a 12-pound turkey. And then we all listened to, “The Silver Shroud vs. Captain Cosmos.” Even pa was there.’

A wave of memories washed over Tristan and it wasn’t entirely pleasant. Luckily, the voice of the ghoul, back to his earlier excitement, quickly dragged Tristan out of the torrent of the past again. 

‘You ever listen to the Silver Shroud? That’s who we need. No matter how bleak things got he’d save the day.’

Tristan still lingered on only parts of what the ghoul was talking about. ‘My family and I used to listen to every new episode.’ Regrettably, he felt a tug in his chest as he said it. 

The ghoul’s murky, dark eyes went wide in his sunken eye sockets. ‘You mean… when they first aired? How? The last broadcast was hundreds of years ago.’

Tristan felt his eyebrows knot. ‘I don’t want to get into it.’ It was all he could say to not risk opening the floodgates, he realized. 

A slight disappointment was visible on the ghoul’s face, but only for a short while. Then, he smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry. But you know the show! Best detective stories in the world.’ Just talking about it seemed to instantly lift this man’s spirits. 

‘What if the Silver Shroud was real?’ the ghoul continued. Tristan noted that his hands were trembling slightly. ‘With his black trench coat and gleaming silver submachine gun?’

Tristan didn’t know what to say. That was a weird “what if”.

‘I got a plan to bring him to life. So he can fight bad guys and give the rest of us a symbol of something better.’

Could he fault this guy? He remembered back to his own thoughts helping some of the settlers for the Minutemen. The desire to want things to be this simple. Good and bad. Superheroes and villains. 

‘What plan?’ he heard himself say. He felt less as if he was humoring this man and more as if he wanted in on the belief in a symbol. 

‘I’ve built my own custom machine gun. Even better than the one in the show.’

Finally, Tristan realized what the ghoul’s excitement reminded him of. Dana and Adrian. His two nurse colleagues who were both really, _really_ into painting minis for tabletop games. And then got married. And the theme for their wedding was Warhammer. And it was, somehow, amazing. _Actually, why the fuck wouldn’t it be._ Resenting people over excitement felt like yet another privilege of a lost world. 

‘But to make this work,’ the ghoul went on. Tristan shook his head slightly, to get back to the present. The ghoul didn’t seem to even notice. ‘I still need the most important piece. The genuine Silver Shroud costume herself.’ The words were offered with a reverence of religious caliber.

‘And they actually got one, here in Boston! They made it for the TV show. Will you help?’  
Tristan felt as if the ghoul would theatrically grab hold of his shoulders or something, such was the nature of this plea. 

Tristan gave Irma a quick look. The intense pity he found there almost made him laugh. 

‘I’ll get the costume for you…?’

‘Oh-uh. Kent. Kent Connelly.’ His eyes went wide again. ‘Wait, you _will_? For real?’

Tristan nodded with a small smile. 

‘Before the bombs fell, they were filming the Silver Shroud pilot over at Hubris Comics. So, uh… that’s where you’ll find it.’ He paused, looking at Tristan with eyes that glittered with a sudden moistness. 

‘You’re the best.’

//

A quick tug on his arm and a subsequent scraggly hand over his mouth stopped Tristan. For a second, he was sure he would tumble back on the stairs from the motion, but somehow he managed to find purchase on the murky wood. Before he could curse himself from wanting Hancock to keep his hand where it had ended up to silence him, the ghoul released Tristan from the grip and nodded into the dusty darkness of the room. 

First, Tristan only saw the actual prize they were after in there – a mannequin on which the costume of the Silver Shroud hung – but then he noticed the strange, bioluminescent glow behind the sorry excuse for a backdrop the mannequin stood against. He tensed his jaw. One of the glowing ones. 

Not taking his eyes off what seemed to be a non-moving glowing ghoul for now, he carefully reached towards the belt bag where he kept at least five small grenades. Quietly, he managed to get one up, making sure Hancock saw what he was doing. The ghoul gave him an affirmative nod. The pin fell to the floor and Tristan aimed as best as he could to get the little projectile behind the torn-up backdrop. He saw it land before he followed Hancock back down the stairs, covering his ears with his hands. 

The loud bang somehow seemed to not have caused a hole in the floor, because what they heard was the wet squelching of broken limbs, and the equally wet gurgle of feral ghouls. In plural. In a much bigger plural than was good. The side room must not have been as empty as it seemed. 

‘Fuck,’ Tristan growled under his breath. 

With a loud, violent hiss, a feral threw itself down the stairs and lunged at Tristan’s throat quicker than he managed to pull the trigger of the rifle he tried to aim at the mottled, knobby body hurling itself at him. A much louder noise caused the feral’s trajectory to rapidly shift before it could land on Tristan, sending it into the wall next to him instead. Hancock’s shotgun. There was no time to gesture any thanks; a group of ten-or-so ferals were huddling down the rackety stairs, all but falling over each other. 

Tristan managed to place the stock of his rifle broad side against the temple of another ghoul flying towards him, sending it the same way as the previous one. The backhand of the same swing met the weirdly soft ribcage of another one, but it didn’t have nearly the same force as the first swing behind it. The ghoul’s impossibly bad-smelling breath spread out of its loudly hissing, gaping mouth; a greenish darkness surrounded by jagged teeth aiming for Tristan’s jugular. He managed to wriggle the rifle up from between himself and the feral, pressing it against the throat of the ghoul, against the wall next to him. He felt an unsettling _pop_ as the feral’s windpipe cracked open underneath the pressure. A wave of nausea hit him, which the creature utilized to move towards Tristan, its claws scraping against the leather pieces of armor on Tristan’s chest. 

Spitting blood-tasting saliva through his bared teeth, Tristan pressed himself away from the feral, managed to get his rifle into a more conventional grip and fired a shot at a close enough range to split the feral’s head into one grimy, sticky mess against the wall. It did not help the nausea go away. 

He heard Hancock’s shotgun fire relentlessly, or as relentlessly as it could for a weapon that had to reload after two shots. In between fighting off the seemingly endless horde of ferals aiming for him, Tristan managed to get in some admiration for how quickly his ghoul companion reloaded that thing. He heard a triumphant laughter somewhere behind the tumbling feral bodies. It seemed to get rid of all the nausea and somehow sent a surge of energy through him. Grinning, he slid over the increasingly blood-covered floorboards, finishing off the approaching ferals with newfound glee. He jammed his weapon in between the chomping jaws of one that stumbled over some of its neutralized companions on the stairs, and finally, they seemed to all have been put to rest. 

A minute of Tristan and Hancock’s labored breathing and wet sounding, slow-moving loose limbs succumbing to gravity followed. 

‘I got the glowing one!’ Hancock suddenly shouted from a way off. Tristan was still stuck halfway up the stairs.

With the help of the butt of his rifle, Tristan made it up the slippery, crowded stairs with a sigh. He couldn’t help but scoff at the sight.

‘You’ve _become_ the glowing one, you mean,’ he said, motioning towards Hancock. The ghoul gave Tristan a frown, and then looked down at his own body. 

‘Ah, hell,’ he muttered. His once red coat was covered in sticky, green, glowing mucus. 

‘Hey, we can save battery on the pip-boy when it’s dark if you keep that,’ Tristan said with a grin. Hancock rolled his eyes. 

‘Hilarious,’ he sighed, starting to dig around in his shoulder bag, assumingly for something to clean the coat off with. 

Tristan moved up to the Silver Shroud costume. A crack in the ceiling let in some dramatic moonlight very conveniently across it. There seemed to be no other way to touch it than carefully; it looked so much like a painting that he, unfoundedly, was afraid it would shatter at the touch. As his finger met the fabric, he was surprised at the solidity of it. He grabbed it firmer. It seemed to be of excellent quality. Not what he would have expected from a cheap, cheesy superhero kids’ show. A shudder went through him. _Not now, memories._

//

‘Well. Here’s the costume. And, actually, I found some other goodies you might like as well.’ Tristan placed the surprisingly heavy trench coat on the bed in Kent’s room. It complained under the weight for each thing Tristan put there, even the tiny tape marked “script”. Kent stood up and slowly walked over to the spread-out black trench coat, carefully trailing the fabric. 

‘There she is!’ he exclaimed quietly. ‘The Silver Shroud costume herself.’ Then, it was as if he finally noticed the fact that the piece of clothing was not the only thing there. He pointed at the dusty, but otherwise quite shiny, prop submachine gun. ‘And memorabilia, too? You’re something else. Together with my gun, everything’s all set.’ Kent motioned to a very faithful replica that lay next to his radio.

‘What’re you planning next, then?’ Tristan said, looking over the two-hundred-year old diorama on Kent’s bed. 

The ghoul seemed to still be waist-deep in some internal reverie. He paced unsteadily around on the spot next to his radio. ‘After all these years… the Silver Shroud is born again!’ He raised his feeble fist a little in a gesture of triumph. Then it fell to his side and he turned to Tristan with a troubled look. 

‘But… there’s just one problem. I’m… I’m just not Silver Shroud material. I could be Rhett Reinhart or– or his butler, Jarvey Blake. But the Shroud is strong, capable.’ As if to emphasize his inaptitude, he made a very pathetic attempt at tensing his biceps. It looked more like a spasm. Then, he simply looked at Tristan. 

Tristan didn’t know what answer Kent was looking for, really. Or… he supposed I _could_ guess at it. He chose not to, however. 

‘What happens to the suit?’ he said, ending the awkward, hopeful silence Kent had left. It didn’t seem to discourage the ghoul in the least.

‘You up for being the Shroud?’ he said, playfully punching Tristan’s upper arm before sinking down on his chair again, brightly smiling up at Tristan and Hancock. ‘You’re just like him! Except… you probably haven’t been in a blimp shot down by monster.’

‘Give it time, he’ll get there,’ Hancock chuckled, softly elbowing Tristan in the side. Tristan blushed. It surprised him. That made him blush even more. He was suddenly very happy that the light in here was basically half-solid in its dimness. 

Awkwardly shifting a little, Tristan cleared his throat. ‘Why me?’

‘No one else would help me find the costume! Even though it sounds crazy, you cared. The whole world’s fallen. Fallen hard. We got to fight to make the place b– better. So, you in?’

The sincerity in Kent’s whole approach was so welcome, Tristan momentarily thought he would spontaneously hug the ghoul. He smiled, not caring that his voice came out thick with emotion. 

‘Looks like I get to be the Shroud.’

//

As if there hadn’t been enough trips back two-hundred years already this day, the look the man in the alley now gave Tristan reminded him of looks he had gotten from the ‘cool kids’ at school when they eyed his second hand-clothes. 

‘What’s with the fancy duds? Looks expensive. Might be I’ve found a new “friend.”’ The armored, grimy man kicked the limp, very obviously dead, body by his feet. His whole attitude sparked something in Tristan, some extremely deep-rooted hatred. That’s what it felt like right now, at least. 

At first, he thought he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from simply driving the barrel of the submachine gun resting in his hands down the man’s throat. But one look down at the silver sheen of the weapon made him make another choice. He was not sure it was a good one. 

‘Your crimes have gone unpunished for too long,’ he said, in a weird voice that wasn’t his own. He heard a surprised inhale from Hancock behind him.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ the gruff man by the corpse muttered. Then he shrugged, pulling his gun. ‘Well, nothing a few bullets won’t cure.’ 

Tristan wondered if this man forgot to register that he was literally holding a submachine gun aimed right at his abdomen. He pulled the trigger. The staccato recoil was uncomfortable against his own solar plexus. Not as uncomfortable as the it was for the solar plexus at the other end of the gun, however. 

The man staggered back in response to the bullets hammering into his body, tearing a jagged, bleeding hole just below where his body armor ended. Tristan was unused to automatic gunfire; the violent shaking made his gums itch and he reflexively let go of the trigger. The very hurt man had more life left in him than Tristan had thought, however. With a loud roar, he threw himself at Tristan, who couldn’t find his way back to the trigger guard through the thick, black gloves of the Silver Shroud costume. He prepared for the impact of the man’s fist, but it never came. 

A howl echoed through the tarnished art nouveau-windows in the alley. Tristan opened his eyes and saw that Hancock had managed to drive the very nasty knife Tristan had found in the Pickman gallery over the knuckles of the man. It was a mess of blood, bone and tendon. With a grunt, Tristan steadied himself and fired, aiming somewhere around the man’s wide-open mouth. He shut his eyes as the bullets made impact. When he released the trigger, everything went silent. 

Moving over to the body, turning his back towards the mess that one was a head, he reached into the inner pocket of the trench coat, pulling out the carefully drawn “calling cards” that Kent had given him. The delicate lines only betrayed a little of the ghoul’s seemingly perpetually shaking hands. Tristan let the card sail down through the dusty, gunpowder-smelling air and land on the man’s lifeless body, sticking to a patch of wet blood. It didn’t feel heroic at all. All he could think of was Pickman. He sighed and turned on the radio on the Pip-boy, actively ignoring the frown he saw that Hancock was giving him. 

//

‘You look like one of them wankers from the posters. Watcha wearing that for?’

For some reason, it was a lot easier to take insults from a robot with a personality based on a very strange English stereotype, than from a surly man with a gun, or someone selling drugs to children. Tristan flicked the brim of the Silver Shroud hat and leaned against the bar, making his best version of ‘shrewd eyes’ he could at one of the Mr. Handy’s eyes. 

‘You look upon… the Silver Shroud. I seek a miscreant named Kendra.’

Was he using that word correctly? He was almost sure he was. _Whatever._

‘The Shroud, then? More like a nutter.’

_You’ve no idea, buddy._

‘Kendra’s not one to be trifled with. People associated with her have a habit of being found face down in a ditch. But if you’re set on meeting her, for a fee it can be arranged.’

‘It is not wise to stand between the Silver Shroud and righteous justice.’ It was as if he couldn’t stop now that he’d started. 

A strange, clanking sound came from the rusted three-eyed robot behind the bar. An arm whirred up and adjusted the bowler hat resting on top of it. It sounded as if it was… chuckling?

‘Justice? You mean to end her? In that case, her flat’s just south of Goodneighbor. Water Street Apartments. Look out for the blighters she’s got with her, though. Nasty piece of business that. Good luck.’

Tristan was sure that if the robot had been able to, it would’ve rolled its eyes behind his back as he turned around. 

At first, he couldn’t see Hancock at all. He had been sure he had been right behind Tristan during his conversation. Apparently, that had not been the case. He saw the ghoul leaning against a big, green trash dispenser, talking to another ghoul in a dress that might’ve one time been pink. Tristan saw Hancock dig around a little in one of his pockets, fish something out of it and press it into the other ghoul’s hand. Her eyes went from haunted to grateful in a heartbeat, and she leaned in to kiss the mayor on the cheek. Hancock patted her on the back before she jogged off towards the stairs, cradling whatever she’d been given against her chest. As Tristan made his way over to Hancock, the ghoul softly shook his head a little, following the other ghoul’s ascent on the stairs with his eyes.

‘Wish I could even remember when getting Jet made me _that_ happy,’ he mumbled. ‘What did Charlie think of your superhero act, huh?’ he continued with a sly grin. 

Tristan couldn’t tell to what degree Hancock made fun of this whole thing. When they’d taken care of the guy dealing chems to kids, it had honestly felt as if he was acting one hundred per cent menacing sidekick to the Shroud. Though, Tristan admitted, the two of them had been like the R-rated ultra-violent, gritty reboot of the Silver Shroud on that particular errand. And Tristan always expected at least a derisive snort every time he decided to keep talking like his very strange idea of what the Silver Shroud sounded like, but Hancock had done none of the sort. He had, in fact, not commented on any of this at all.

Tristan felt as if he was on a roll, but he wasn’t sure it was a good one. But there was momentum. He didn’t have the strength to stop it. 

‘I think he liked it,’ Tristan finally said with a stiff smile. ‘Let’s go finish this.’

It looked as if Hancock was finally going to say something, but he stopped himself, it seemed. ‘Lead the way,’ he said instead, motioning for Tristan to do just that. ‘Shroud.’

//

‘Wayne Delancy’s killer… And here I thought they were joking when they said he was killed by a freak in a costume.’ The mocking tone matched the enormous weapon in Kendra’s hands poorly. ‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with.’ _That’s more accurate._

‘I do so like it when the little bug crawls willingly into the spider’s webs,’ she continued. Tristan cocked an eyebrow at her now exaggerated, playful tone. _I’m not the only one, I guess._

‘You have taken your last life, villain,’ Tristan said in his, now almost comfortable, forcedly low Shroud-voice. Somewhere in the back of his head it felt sick to talk like this, act like this, when it was absolutely going to end with one of them dead. 

‘You stole my line,’ the well-armored woman in front of him said, clutching her cannon-looking rifle even harder. She laughed. 

Tristan didn’t know if it was because the laughter sent her off-balance or if she was more unused to the big weapon than she let on, but the shot that followed was both very surprising to Tristan and also missed its mark. Almost, at least. Tristan felt the bullet effortlessly penetrate the light armor-plating that the trench coat, for some reason, had, and graze his arm. It smarted like all hell. He sucked his teeth sharply at the pain and threw himself behind a fallen piece of concrete with crooked, rusted reinforcing bars sticking out from it along the top. Another shot from Kendra’s large gun. It made Tristan realize that his ears were ringing from the last shot. 

Through the dust, he saw Hancock finding cover as well, and how he, without peeking out from it, put his shotgun over the edge and fired in the general direction of Kendra. Some sort of god of luck seemed to be on the ghoul’s side, because it sounded to Tristan as if _both_ shots found their mark, judging by the hurt grunts from Kendra. He couldn’t help but laugh at that. _Like a movie_. 

Another shot, in Hancock’s direction now. Tristan used Kendra’s shift of focus to look over the concrete slab and aim, or at least try to, in the thick dust curtain and backlight from the bright mid-day sun shining in from the dirty windows. The submachine gun clattered against the concrete it rested on. _Why am I still using this thing?_

Tristan was quite sure none of the barrage from his weapon made it to Kendra, and now he could see that she was almost all the way up to Hancock’s cover, gun first. Tristan’s heartbeat went from mildly elevated to straight up war drum at the sight. _If that gun reaches Hancock’s head…_ For a frozen moment, he felt as if his hands weren’t holding a gun; they felt as if they were trying to hold on to Voss’ massacred, bloody back. 

He sprang up with the energy only terror could give someone, and heard himself whispering small, broken prayers under his breath, to anything, for the trigger to not go off, for nothing he did to startle Kendra into pressing it. He aimed for her legs with his entire body. 

With the muffled hearing and ringing in his ears, combined with the sound of Kendra’s armor crashing against Tristan, he sincerely couldn’t tell if the gun had gone off or not. He couldn’t help but reach for it where it now lay on the ground, for its barrel. It was burning hot. _No, no, no, no, no…_. While staggering to his feet, he made sure to ram the drum magazine of his submachine gun into Kendra’s temple. It seemed to daze her, at the very least. Stumbling towards the concrete cover, he also managed to kick the enormous gun far off into a dark corner of the room. 

There was dust, much more here than in the rest of the room; it seemed to come from an impact with the concrete cover itself. 

‘Han-c…’ He tried to shout it, but it was just a whisper. He got dust in his eyes; they teared. 

He heard a cough. A familiar one. His eyes continued to tear, from relief now. He grabbed on to anything he found in front of him, meeting a coarse, wet coat. The wet was warm. 

The dust cleared and Tristan still hadn’t found his way back to speech. Hancock seemed alive, but Tristan couldn’t see how close to any other state he was. The backlight from the window made everything hard to see. But finally, he could make out one of Hancock’s eyes underneath the tricorn hat. The other eye seemed tightly shut in a grimace of pain. A strained grin-resembling face, somewhere between amusement and anguish. 

‘Geez, you don’t have to look so fucking terrified, man,’ the ghoul let out, a little tightly, tense from pain. ‘I’ve had far worse.’

Tristan couldn’t shake his state that quickly. Tears kept pouring down his cheeks slowly as he felt the rest of his body turn on some kind of professional switch. He saw his hands working, but it was as if he was looking at a tv-show from a first-person POV. 

Hancock didn’t resist when Tristan moved the coat off his shoulder, and Hancock’s hand from clenching at it. Tristan’s hands were completely steady, but his breath took on the trembling they wanted to express instead. The shoulder was a bloody mess, literally, but after a quick cleanse with some purified water and some pushing and pulling, Tristan, to his immense relief, realized it was only tissue that had suffered the impact. All bones were intact. Had that gun blasted through his entire shoulder joint, Hancock would probably not be able to move his arm properly ever again. 

‘You’ll be fine,’ Tristan said, his voice still a whisper.

‘Yeah, I told ya,’ Hancock muttered. Tristan noticed that his usual jocular tone was nowhere to be found. He sounded almost pissed. _Deal with that later. Deal with this now._

//

‘Stop touching it,’ Tristan said, for the third time in fifteen minutes. 

Hancock’s hand obediently fell to his side again, from poking at the stitches on his shoulder. ‘I’m just… impressed,’ he replied with a close-lipped smile at Tristan.

Tristan frowned. ‘Funny way of showing it, undoing my work by jamming your – no offense – unsanitary fingers into it.’

Hancock snorted and before Tristan really understood what was happening, said unsanitary fingers moved through his tangled mess of an undercut and a soft kiss was placed on his lips. He couldn’t do much but stare in surprise at the ghoul. 

‘Better?’ Hancock said as softly as his rough voice allowed. 

Tristan tried very hard to not become a weak-kneed mess right there, and sort of managed. He let out a small, half-affirmative, half-sour grunt. ‘Better.’

Hancock let a hand rest on Tristan’s chest for a bit, thumbing the black textile, before leaning back against the messy make-shift lab in Kendra’s room. The bright mid-day sun had sunk a bit, golden-hour yellow spreading over Hancock’s bare, scrawny, still blood-stained pink chest. He made a disapproving face as he saw how blood-soaked the American flag he used as a belt had become, tracing the dirty fabric with his fingertips before looking up at Tristan again under his hat.

‘Look, playing dress up is fun and all,’ he said, lazily gesturing towards Tristan’s, also very blood-stained, get-up. ‘But you’ve walked into something a whole lot bigger. These low-lives we’ve been taking out for Kenny-boy… they all belong to the same asshole. And that asshole’s going to want some good old-fashioned revenge. You dig?’

Tristan reluctantly tore his eyes away from the downright beautiful image of Hancock in the setting sun, to look at the now very dead Kendra and the calling card unceremoniously thrown down to stick to the blood on her throat. He swallowed and looked away again.

‘Yeah? And who’s that?’

‘His name’s Sinjin. He’s taken two-bit raider outfits and made them… scary. Small fish now, but if left alone…’ The ghoul faintly shook his head. ‘I happen to know where some of his other people are. Smiling Kate operates outside of Bunker Hill. And Northy’s got a pad over at Prospect Hill.’

Hancock picked up the once blue and yellow frilled shirt that laid heaped on the table next to him. He snorted at the state of it before tying it to his shoulder bag, seemingly opting to go shirtless under the coat he now slid back on, only making a small face of pain as it landed on his shoulder. Once in the coat again, he made an attempt at stretching out, but apparently that hurt quite a bit as well. He sighed a little before continuing.

‘We take them out and maybe… we can find out where the big guy himself is stashed.’ He gave Tristan a sincere, small smile. His eyes seemed tired to Tristan. ‘Goodneighbor’d rest a whole lot easier with him out of the picture.’

‘I’m up for some community service,’ Tristan tried. He also tried to not admit to himself how much he wanted to be able to cheer Hancock up. He didn’t know if he was able to. However, something about Tristan’s words definitely seemed to brighten up the ghoul’s face. 

At first, he just smiled, then it turned into a genuine, short laugh, which ended on a long, voiced sigh. Tristan didn’t quite dare to imagine it, but it all did sound quite happy. Hancock moved closer to Tristan and put a hand on his shoulder, smiling into his face. 

‘You know, you’re alright. You take care of Sinjin, and I’m inclined to show some gratitude. You feel me?’

It was a knee-jerk reaction, and Tristan couldn’t stop it. His whole face just screamed “oh really?” at Hancock’s words, and for a second he was terrified of what that might do to this situation. He hadn’t thought about MacCready for ages, but now it was as if all he could hear was the young mercenary’s repeated ideas about owing Tristan things. Money, favors… his body. Everything Tristan would never ask for. 

The cold wave these thoughts brought was washed away by a surprisingly bubbling laughter coming out of Hancock. 

‘Aw, man,’ he said after a while, when his initial laughter had subsided. ‘What the hell have you gone through to see me as a reward, huh?’ He was still laughing as he let go of Tristan’s arm, patted him lightly on his rough stubble, and marched for the door, shotgun rattling in its holster.

_He thinks I can’t hear the genuine self-loathing. Takes one to know one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! And welcome to the slow-burn portion of this mess. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh sry :3


	15. Point of No Return

‘If it isn’t the boy behind the costume…’ Where Kendra had had a tinge of madness, a flicker of insanity, the woman called Smiling Kate had just thrown herself headlong into unhinged. Tristan couldn’t remember if anyone had ever looked at him the way she looked at him now. He had been the victim of predatory eyes, fear, rage, hatred, but this was something else. The crowd of raiders around her looked painfully sane in comparison. He suspected they stuck around out of fear. 

‘You’ve been really naughty, Mr. Shroud, making all my friends sooo nervous with your calling cards… Taking out Sinjin’s favorite toy soldiers.’ Her voice oscillated between high-pitched, childlike and a growl, and it didn’t seem forced, which was the thing that made it impossible to laugh at. The growl – sounding like it came from something else than a human – was the tone she ended on. 

‘Now it’s time to rip your god-damned heart out.’

Tristan hadn’t been able to talk; her whole deal had frozen him solid. But, thankfully, his body knew when it was time to get a fucking move on. The alley was littered with rusty car-carcasses and heaps of melted together metal scrap. He half-jumped, half-dodged behind one of the skeletal cars, accompanied by five guns of different calibers going off. Smiling Kate kept shrieking incomprehensible taunts at him, in between panting laughter attacks. 

‘At least she likes her job!’ Hancock growled from across the way, huddling down behind a heap of metal parts. 

Tristan exhaled a short laugh, heartbeat loud in his ears. 

‘I wish they were more of an actual joke!’ he couldn’t help but shout back. The gunfire was relentless. 

‘Could you—’ Hancock was interrupted by all the guns opposite them firing at once. ‘Could you throw one of those small, explosive presents maybe?!’ he yelled over the sound when it wouldn’t quit.

‘Right,’ Tristan whispered to himself, reaching for his belt bag. _Glad someone’s thinking_.

It was effective; Tristan managed to time it so that every single one of the raiders got caught in the blast. Once Hancock had seemed to confirm none of them was getting back up, he quickly ran out from his cover and unceremoniously made very sure they were _never_ getting back up again with the help of his trusty shotgun. Tristan cringed every time the loud weapon went off. Then he heard a phlegmy, raspy laughter from behind the peeling-paint-adorned corner of the house next to him. 

Smiling Kate sat leaned against the wall, some golden rays of the setting sun making the blood covering her shine in orange rather than red. Tristan felt his jaw tense as he saw that both of her legs were nowhere to be seen, only a bloody, stringy mess left where they once were. She was still laughing, in little convulsions, blood pouring from the sides of her mouth in a steady stream. She saw Tristan, her gleaming eyes surprisingly, defiantly, full of life still. 

‘Little… super… hero… boy…’ she stuttered out, smiling at him.

Then he saw her go for the gun next to her. He was off guard, staring at her lack of legs, he didn’t make it, he wouldn’t be able to gets his hands in order in time—

The rifle went off, turning her head into a splat against the wall, and a lower jaw atop a gaping throat. 

Tristan heard himself exhale, a whine, loud and painful. He turned around and threw up before falling to the ground, thankfully away from what had just shot out of his body, and away from the mess of body parts Kate was. He felt an overwhelming need to cry, cry for several days in a row. It threatened to overtake his whole head to the point where he slapped himself, hard, in an attempt to snap out of it. It worked, for what it was. _Still work to do. Keep it together._

He opened the eyes the slap had made him close to Hancock’s frown. Tristan looked away, grunting quietly. An outstretched hand made it into the periphery of his vision. 

‘Like you said, let’s finish this,’ the ghoul said quietly, close to Tristan, as he managed to get him back to standing. But it was a question, not a statement. 

Tristan gave him a quick nod. ‘Let’s finish this,’ he repeated, allowing Hancock to lead them to their next target. 

//

Taking out Northy and his army-sized gang was a blur of aftershocks. It was mechanical, thoughtless, calculated. All going a route Tristan would’ve been alarmed by, had he stopped to take notice. But that had to wait. Momentum. 

‘This is just the waiting room? Guess there was real money in the suffering of others.’ Hancock’s mutter as they entered the dilapidated hospital was hard to appreciate for Tristan. Or, the fact that he did appreciate it was hard. It made it too real. He adjusted it in his head. Hancock’s words were often witty enough to have been part of a script. That worked. This was an episode of the Shroud yet. Just the season finale left to get through. He still couldn’t give any intelligible reply, and he had to keep ignoring the worried looks Hancock kept shooting him. But he could do this. Just a little longer. Just a little longer.

He could’ve done without a hospital that had been destroyed and rearranged by raiders into nothing short of a labyrinth. He needed a straight path, he needed not to think. The circles they kept moving in had the effect of making his rampage increasingly violent, he noticed. When there were no raiders left to kill, no turrets left to kick, he resorted to jamming the stock of the machinegun into a weak part of a wall. Hancock declined to comment. Eventually, they came to an elevator they hadn’t seen before. 

‘This better be it,’ Tristan hissed, staring at the doors of the elevator, ready to mangle anything that was behind them once they opened again. Hancock had been quiet since the waiting room but now he put his hand on Tristan’s arm. Not gently. Tristan spun around, but the ghoul was unfazed by his angry glare. 

‘If Kent is still alive, we gotta keep him that way, yeah?’ His voice was strained, commanding.

Tristan felt his heart sink to alarming depths. He couldn’t deal with what this tone from Hancock meant right now. He tried to steel himself, and reassure his ghoul companion that he hadn’t completely lost it, even though he was unsure if that were true. 

‘Yes,’ he croaked. He swallowed. ‘Yeah, of course. Jesus. That’s why we’re here.’

Tristan thanked all the gods he had heard of for Hancock’s ability to deal with him. His words were jagged, sounded angry, sounded like an accusation. But it seemed to be enough for the ghoul. He let go of the stiff grip around Tristan’s arm with a nod. The elevator’s doors opened with a rattle and an off-key _ding_. 

‘Hold, assholes. Anyone turns heel and I’m coming for you and your family.’

The room was big and bright. He counted three guns pointed at him. Sinjin, a big, armored brute of a ghoul, was up on the big landing of some stairs, with a gun pointed at the back of the kneeling Kent Connolly’s head. The meek ghoul apparently couldn’t help giving Tristan a wide, sparkling smile as he came out of the elevator, and the slight movement made Sinjin hit the ghoul on the side of his head with his weapon. It turned Kent’s smile into a little whine. Sinjin’s face was a hard display of hatred. 

‘And you, Shroud,’ he continued in a loud growl, ‘You step any closer and we get to see what’s inside Kent’s head.’

Tristan stopped his slow approach, but kept his hands on his gun, albeit aimed at the ground. Seeing Kent like this had cleared the blind fury that had built in him trying to find his way down here. 

‘What do you want, Sinjin?’ It was his normal voice. He was done with this bullshit. 

‘We’ll get to that,’ Sinjin muttered, but it had no trouble being heard in the acoustics of this large room. 

‘Some of these losers think you’re some sort of legend,’ the ghoul continued with a small, joyless grin. ‘Like you walked straight out of a comic book. But you and I know… you’re human. And you’re weak. You came here for what? Your little sidekick?’

‘I’m sure it’s not something you have experience with, Sinjin,’ Tristan said, still a little surprised at the stability of his own voice. ‘But friends don’t make you weak. They make you strong.’ It was simple, but true. It felt very true right now, as he heard Hancock mutter ‘that’s fucking right’ behind him as he had said it.

There was a small, but significant, pause before Sinjin continued. ‘I can play you like a chump because you care about a weakling like this. And you think that’s strength?’ He sounded angrier now, the relative composure from before eroding away by the word. He placed the double-barrel of his shotgun against Kent’s neck. The ghoul let out another pitiful whine.

‘So, what’s going to happen is this,’ Sinjin continued. ‘I’m going to kill Kent.’

Even from the distance and angle he was at, Tristan could see tears beginning to stream from Kent’s eyes. 

‘Then, we’re going to shoot the hell out of you. Nothing’s going to be left but paste.’

Sinjin’s words brought back the imagine of Smiling Kate’s head turning into paste. That man in the alley. The scribe from the Brotherhood… Voss. 

Tristan exhaled sharply through his nostrils. Unfortunately, it seemed as if Sinjin noticed, and took it as him gaining the advantage. 

‘_Then_,’ he continued, voice heated by excitement at the prospect of all the killing he was going to get done, ‘I’m going to Goodneighbor and kill every last worthless bastard there. And burn the whole thing down.’

It was Hancock’s turn to not be able to keep his breathing steady, but the change was subtle enough for only Tristan to notice it. It anchored him. _We’re not going to let that happen, Hancock._

‘You know what would really get to Kent?’ Tristan said and he could see Sinjin’s eyes narrow in surprise. ‘Killing his friend. His hero. Right in front of him.’ He wondered if it was too simple a bait, wondered if he had correctly judged how close Sinjin was to just shoot up everything in this room. 

The ghoul laughed. 

_Shit._

‘Enjoy the show, Kent. After I’m done with the Shroud, you’re next.’

_Or not._

‘Give ‘em hell, babe,’ he heard Hancock whispering to him as he darted past, towards the nearest cover. 

//

‘I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life,’ Kent said, breathlessly, as Tristan helped him up from his kneeling position. The shot to his knee had been shoddily wrapped and tied with cloth and the shaking ghoul was, unsurprisingly, reluctant to put weight on it. 

‘Are you alright?’ Tristan said, regretting it the second he had said it. What was he supposed to answer to that?

Confirming the look of the leg, the ghoul said, ‘My leg is killing me,’ but then he looked up at Tristan with an attempt at a pain-free smile again. ‘But it could of been so much worse.’ The smile disappeared and a sober, dejected look replaced it. 

‘I just give up. On all of it,’ he sighed. ‘Crime-fighting just isn’t what I thought it’d be.’ The unfiltered sorrow in the ghoul’s voice was painful to hear. 

‘But… if you just quit, then the bad guys have already won.’ If he had judged Kent correctly, it would work. 

Immediately, the smile was back, and the enthusiastic glint in his eye as well. ‘You… You’re right!’ he said with a vigorous nod, standing up straight, and apparently having forgotten about the pain in his knee for now. It was momentary, however. A hurt spasm brushed over his face, and he sighed again. 

‘But I’m tired. I just… wanna go home.’ He was far from the complete defeat he had shown earlier, however. Him being tired was, after all, not exactly surprising. ‘I’m going back to Goodneighbor. Really, thanks for saving me, but... I’m just done.’

The ghoul started to huddle away towards the stairs.

‘You, ah… You don’t need company going back there?’ Tristan said, nodding towards Kent’s leg as the ghoul turned to look at him. 

The ghoul gave a faint, brave smile, and shook his head softly. ‘No offence, Shroud but… you attract danger like ma’s plum sauce attracted da. I’ll be alright.’

Tristan gave him a careful smile and a shrug but couldn’t help feeling ready for disaster as he watched the ghoul make it down the stairs towards the elevator. When the doors closed behind his beige, hunched back, Tristan felt lightheaded. He turned around and was met by a look from Hancock that managed to go straight to his groin. 

The ghoul stood a few feet away, leaning against the precariously crooked railing behind him, eyes dark and glimmering under the tri-corn hat. His lips weren’t parted, but the heaving of his chest pointed to his breathing being labored. Or maybe it was just Tristan who couldn’t stop staring at the scraggly pink skin underneath the coat. When he looked back up in the ghoul’s face, a close-lipped grin met him. 

It was almost painful, how much he wanted to just close the gap between them. But he couldn’t tell, he sincerely couldn’t tell, if he made it up. He tried, for a few scrambled seconds to apply logic, heard again the ‘give ‘em hell, babe’ from before echoing in his head, but still. 

A faint chuckle was the end product. Tristan looked away and went for the set of stairs leading up into a smaller room which he guessed was where Sinjin had set up. He didn’t look at Hancock, just made it up there, trying to ignore the tension between his legs. 

It had been a correct guess. The room he stepped into was comparably clean, it had some sleeping bags and mats piled into a bed-like construction on the floor in between some rows of filing cabinets, a desk, a trunk, some boxes of various food stuff—

Hands made it to the front of the camo pants he had under the now open, black trench coat, and down into the pockets there. Tristan was completely unprepared, and a loud gasp made it out of him as the hands went deep enough to nudge his half-hard cock. Breath met his ear, the radiation-fueled warmth of the ghoul’s body pressing against him. Another hard-on against his back. A more deliberate stroke in his pocket.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Hancock murmured against his ear. 

Tristan’s knees threatened to not hold his weight in an instant, so he reached out to brace against the filing cabinets in front of him. The metal was cool against his hands, and he put his hot brow against it as soon as he realized how good it felt against his skin. It was like magnetism, the way his hips pressed back against Hancock. 

‘Fuck,’ he whispered into the steel in front of him, as a sort of summary of the ruthless _want_ he felt now that he didn’t – couldn’t – worry about Hancock not being interested in this exact thing this exact second. 

‘Getting to it,’ Hancock said. Tristan could hear the smile on his lips. 

A knee was placed behind Tristan’s own, and still surprisingly strong arms for their wiry look made sure he didn’t tumble head-first into the cabinets, but rather landed on all fours on the make-shift bed underneath them. 

The trench coat and the hat slid off easily, over Tristan’s head. Almost in the same motion, Hancock grabbed hold of the black t-shirt Tristan had underneath, pulled it over his head, but stopped at the wrists, quickly managing to lock them in place together. Hearing the groan Tristan let out at the sensation, the ghoul pulled the textile-handcuffs a lot tighter, earning another moan, before securing them there. 

The craggy fingers of Hancock’s hand snaked around Tristan’s throat, pulling him up, back against the ghoul’s body. His tied-up hands fell dully against his body, but also brushed against his now throbbing hard-on. He had lost his ability to keep any sound inside of him, and let out a small whimper, which was partially stopped by Hancock’s hand against his throat. The ghoul didn’t squeeze but held Tristan in a way which made him have to lean against the hand, causing a pressure against his larynx. He leaned into it a little more. It earned a short, content laugh from the ghoul behind him. 

Tristan felt as if he had underestimated how much he wanted this, now that he was in a position to get it. It felt as if his body was acting on its own, pressing against every inch it could find of Hancock. He was too exhausted to entertain shame. 

‘I need…’ he heard himself plead as Hancock answered his pressure with one of his own. The ghoul, teasingly softly, kissed the side of Tristan’s throat, before licking it, slowly, from shoulder to ear. It left more than Tristan’s sentence hanging in anticipation. 

‘Mhm?’ Hancock muttered against his ear when Tristan didn’t continue. The hand that wasn’t against his throat had found its way to one of Tristan’s nipples and lightly brushed over it repeatedly. 

‘I--!’ Just as Tristan was about to try and continue, Hancock twisted the nipple between his fingers, hard. It almost made Tristan fall over, which made the ghoul tighten the grip on Tristan’s throat, and bring his ear back close to his lips again.

‘Tell me then,’ he said, mockingly, when Tristan tried to breathe through the rough treatment of his nipple. Out of nowhere, the ghoul let go of it and the void left made words fall over each other out of Tristan’s mouth.

‘Please, god, just fuck me.’

Hancock gave a short chuckle, let go of Tristan’s throat, gave him a shove, and Tristan just barely managed to sort of catch himself with his bound hands, landing face down on the sleeping bag, half-supported on his elbows. The ghoul deftly managed to get Tristan’s pants undone, pulling them over his ass to gather at his bent knees. It was as if the ghoul couldn’t help himself but let out a content sound at what he found there. He roughly trailed the curve of Tristan’s bared ass with his hand, letting his thumb rub between the cheeks. Tristan gasped through clenched teeth.

‘Hmm…’ he could hear the ghoul sound behind him and felt one hand leave the reverent caressing of his skin. He heard Hancock’s bag open, heard him rummage through it, could imagine what he was looking for.

He had a few seconds of relative calm when Hancock was going through his things. He was worried something bad would creep up, like an unwanted monster jumping out from a corner to inform him of yet another horrible thing he had forgotten just to remember at the worst possible moment. Nothing came. Or, something came, and it was a wave so strange to him at first that he didn’t know what to make of it. It felt like… happiness?

He heard a lid being screwed off. He felt as if he recognized the sound but couldn’t place it in his jumbled state. Hancock leaned over him, warming his exposed back, hot skin and coarse textile. A scarred hand placed a yellow and red capsule in front of him, and then a can of purified water. Rad-X. Tristan raised a little higher on his elbows and looked back at Hancock. 

He had to take a few seconds just to appreciate what he saw, first. Hancock’s shoulder-length ash-blonde hair hung around his face and Tristan just really liked how it looked free of the tricorn hat. The ghoul had many faces, but the soft, yet flushed, one he donned now felt as if it was something new. He nodded down towards the pill in front of Tristan, seemingly oblivious of the stunned appreciation Tristan was up to.

‘Safety first, babe,’ the ghoul said, ‘wouldn’t want ya lookin’ like me when we’re done.’

Tristan made a choice to leave everything he wanted to protest about in that sentence for later. More pressing needs right now. 

‘I appreciate it but, uh…’ he wiggled the fingers of his bound-up hands, noting that he had already lost sensation in a few of them. 

Hancock’s eyes went wide, and he scoffed.

‘Right!’ he laughed, bending over Tristan again and bringing him back up in a sitting position against his own chest. ‘Guess I, ah… My mind was a little preoccupied,’ he said quietly against Tristan’s ear. 

The levity of the situation, the momentary relaxation of tension, was gone instantly as Tristan felt Hancock’s breath against his ear again, combined with the rush of blood to his hands as Hancock freed them. Breathing through parted lips, Tristan fumblingly found the little capsule and the can of water. The pill went down easily, and the water was incredibly welcome. He downed half the can, and then offered it to Hancock, who just looked at it.

‘Okay, just believe me, it’s incredible.’

Hancock cocked an eyebrow and smiled, shaking his head, but took the can, and downed the rest. 

‘Should know by now to trust your advice,’ the ghoul said as he threw the can into a dark corner of the room. 

_Later. Deal with that tone later._

Hancock seemed to be of the same mind. His hand made a short detour to his side, before making its way underneath Tristan, between his cheeks again, and then into him, slowly. A violent shudder went through Tristan’s entire body as one finger, then rapidly two went in and out of him, then three. 

The teasing comments were left behind; an urgency had found its way into Hancock’s movements now. Tristan didn’t complain. The build-up had left him volatile however – he felt as if he could come any second if he didn’t calm down. He tried to breathe through his nose, slowly. It helped a little, maybe. 

The ghoul placed a hand between Tristan’s shoulder blades, pushing him down on all fours again, and Tristan followed without any resistance. His arms crumbled quickly, leaving him to place his forehead down into the, thankfully not too foul-smelling, sleeping bags underneath. Fingers went out, the head of Hancock’s dick replace them. 

Tristan had been unable to not let out sounds throughout, but as Hancock slid into him, the ghoul also let go of that restraint. A long, quiet groan escaped him as he slowly went past the first tension Tristan provided, and all the way into him. 

‘Oh my god,’ Tristan whispered open-mouthed into the fabric, realizing he had seen correctly before, when it seemed as if Hancock’s dick was as calloused and ridged as the rest of him. He tensed up, but more to feel it better than anything else. Hancock paused, however. 

‘You okay?’ he said, placing a warm hand on the small of Tristan’s back.

‘Incredible.’

Hancock chuckled; he sounded surprised. With that all-clear, he went back to the level of roughness he had realized Tristan appreciated. First slowly, but every thrust harsh, full-length in, uneven rhythm. Tristan tore at the green fabric around him, knuckles white, spittle running from his open mouth. He wanted to stop time, make this an everlasting state of anticipation, a blissful Sisyphus-hill.

The ghoul increased his pace and reached around to touch Tristan as he did so. As the ghoul’s hand met Tristan’s cock, he hissed, sure he’d explode right there and then. Hancock noticed, didn’t move his hand, went rougher in his ass to offer a counterweight. It worked, and Tristan was allowed to hover in a vibrating, breathless, almost-climax for at least another minute, before neither of them could hold out any longer. 

‘I’m—’ Tristan mumbled, feeling like a wild animal clawing at a cage.

‘Yeah,’ he heard Hancock exhale, seemingly only having needed the signal from Tristan to let go. 

Tristan felt as if the floor disappeared as he came, reaching back to hold onto one of Hancock’s hands as if his life depended on it. It felt as if it wouldn’t end, until it did, and everything was warm, and soft, and shivering. He felt as if he had a body again somewhere around the moment Hancock fell down next to him with a long, content sigh.

He felt his brow tense as he heard himself think _I don’t dare to look at him_. He had an inkling why. No, he knew exactly why, and that was a mess he just had to pretend he didn’t feel right now. So, he looked. And he was very happy that Hancock already seemed fast asleep, because then he could cry in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait T__T uni is kicking my ass. Was good to have a moment to write some ssssssssssssssssssmut.


	16. Neon Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't say it's the first time I touch upon such things in this fic, but I'm still going to warn a little about self-harm and suicidal thoughts here in particular, just in case.

The vision of the deeply inhaling ghoul stepping out of the hospital was somewhat distorted by the fact that all Tristan could smell was rot and rust around him. Faint whiff of old seaweed. Hancock kept his eyes on the broken city before them as he talked. 

‘So down goes the big bad Sinjin. We get to walk that tight rope of freedom… one more day.’

Tristan looked where Hancock looked, wondering if the ghoul saw something he didn’t among the blow-out apartment blocks. ‘World’s better without him,’ he muttered, wondering how much of a difference it actually made in this particular world. 

‘And the future, a little brighter,’ Hancock said, a nudge from his elbow in Tristan’s side working well to get him out of his sullenness. ‘Let’s trek back to Goodneighbor, yeah? Make sure Kent made it.’

//

Tristan could see that Kent Connolly noticed them come in, but also that the scrawny little ghoul made an effort to keep staring despondently into the wall behind his bed. 

‘Ah, Kent, my man. Why the long face? You got what you wanted.’ Hancock’s tone was jocular, but Tristan could tell there was an edge underneath it. He was losing his patience with Kent, or maybe he had a long time ago.

‘I was tortured. Almost died. It’s not like the radio plays at all.’

Something about the candor made both Tristan and Hancock look up at the ghoul, Hancock from lighting a cigarette. Tristan glanced at his ghoul companion. His face didn’t seem softer, instead his dark eyes narrowed, as if he was displeased at Kent for spelling reality out like that. The subsequent grin the mayor gave the hunched little ghoul sitting in front of him was not a pleasant one. 

‘Hey, who hasn’t been tortured from time-to-time? The price of throwing down with the Man is always a few scars.’

Tristan noticed how he had taken a step back from Hancock as he talked, even though it wasn’t directed at him. The ghoul hadn’t moved from leaning against the wall, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, but Tristan felt as if the mayor of Goodneighbor was standing with a knife to Kent’s throat. The eye-contact between the two ghouls was strained. Then, suddenly, Hancock looked away, smiling a, in comparison, shockingly carefree little smile, and shrugged. 

‘Pick yourself up. Goodneighbor’s a… bit safer thanks to the two of you.’

Hancock managed to silence the protest that was on its way out of Tristan’s mouth with a sharp look. Tristan had to look away instantly, down at Kent, who seemed confused at the extremes in attitude this conversation bounced between. Tristan was close enough to be able to put a hand on Kent’s shoulder. He could barely feel the bony shoulder underneath the shoulder padding of his threadbare suit. 

‘What would the Shroud do without his faithful friend Rhett Reinhart?’ he said, trying to not sound belittling, but afraid to give away genuine emotion. He felt bruised and he didn’t want to examine why. 

Glitteringly wet eyes met Tristan’s. ‘This…’ Kent put his dry little hand on Tristan’s. ‘This means a lot to me.’ Tristan had to remove his hand to not get dragged into his sincerity. He hoped he managed to do it respectfully. The ghoul’s mood seemed instantly impossible to bring down, however. He patted his thighs twice, nodding.

‘I’m gonna need some time. To heal, you know? But then I got a special project in mind – just for you. I’ll fire up my radio station if I make any progress.’

Tristan wanted to give him a hug. He settled on shaking his hand and made sure to swallow all his own intrusive thoughts and confused emotions, in favor of being able to give Kent an honest, warm smile. 

‘See you around, my friend.’

As Hancock and Tristan moved to the exit of The Memory Den, Hancock leaned into Tristan. 

‘Okay, but now, we _need_ to do some celebrating.’

//

Tristan was drunk. He felt as if that _should_ mean a lot of things, have a lot of effects, that it absolutely did not have right now. He knew he was glaring. He wished he could stop. His thoughts were sluggish, trying to find anywhere else to go but down, but slipped in the attempt every time. He was glaring at Hancock’s back. It was a good thing, because it meant the ghoul couldn’t see the look on his face. He tried to tell himself that. It didn’t really work. 

He knew what this was, and he hated it. He wasn’t a jealous person. It didn’t make it true to tell himself that, but he knew he wasn’t. Or rather, he knew that every time he felt jealous it was because _of_ something. He heard echoes of what felt like a million loud, angry conversations from two hundred years back, from attempts at long term relationships, to week-long mistakes. Rationally, he knew all this, but it didn’t feel true at the same time. There must be _something_ to it – why would he make _everything_ up?

The evening had started out well enough. He enjoyed seeing the welcome Hancock was given after this time away, hearing the ghoul tell of their exploits in… very colorful versions. Tristan was made out to be highly impressive at just about everything and at first, he chuckled along, but after a while he noticed how it annoyed him. He moved away, let Hancock go on, sat by the bar. He noticed the clouds gathering. Knew he had to try to clear them. 

He tried to distract himself by striking up conversation with Daisy, the ghoul who ran the shop next to Kleo’s. Tristan knew she was from before the war, but that fact alone had made him weary before. He didn’t know what it would mean to remember together with someone like that. Turns out, it was lovely. He and Daisy had lived such different lives. 

It didn’t last. What started out like a pleasant trip down memory lane grew into a silent, choking panic somewhere in Tristan’s throat. It wasn’t the memories per se, it was the fact that it already felt so incredibly far away, so impossibly unreal. For the first time, he felt strikingly unsure whether it had even happened. Daisy seemed to notice but had no solution but to fall silent when Tristan stopped talking. She put a hand on his, and he pulled it away violently, before apologizing haphazardly and stumbling away to the bar again, staring into the faded label on the beer bottle in his hand. 

He had no right to feel slighted at Hancock having fun, being the life of the party, laughing next to Magnolia who was smiling warmly at him. He had no right, but he was out of ways to stop it. Self-loathing over it threatened to choke him. He couldn’t stop swallowing, to try and get rid of the sensation. Nothing worked. He stood up, made sure Hancock’s back was still turned, and slunk out among the crowd, up the stairs, out onto the street. 

The sky was dark, a light drizzle blowing around in the air, making the ground glisten with the various neon signs around the settlement. Everything was black and red, and Tristan’s body was unsteady. This wasn’t a big place. It wasn’t a city, no streets to roam, just circles to walk in, alleys to fall into, fights to interrupt. 

He saw the body he was tumbling into but couldn’t stop his feet from moving in that direction in time. He could tell before he looked up that his movement had been stopped by violence. The body was hard, stiff, offensive. Hands pushed him off, feet moved up; he fell, landed. Wet asphalt grinded his palms, gravel getting stuck, tiny sores hurting more than knife cuts.

‘The fuck are you doing?’ The growl echoed in the alley. He remembered another time in an alley here. Other violence. Everything seemed so clear then, in comparison. _But I still fucked it up._

A shadow over him. He tried to open his eyes, but he had forgotten how. He let a dull, dumb smile glide over his face. A greeting. _Hello._ It would probably had been better if he hadn’t accompanied the smile with an equally dull, but very obvious, middle finger towards the shadow. 

The kick came like a gunshot. He had forgotten what it felt like being kicked in the ribs. It was all guns and knives around here. _Guns and knives and nails and teeth and–_.

The second kick was a lot worse. Something broke, he couldn’t tell if it was bone or tissue or both. He instinctively moved to guard his insides, crawling into a groaning ball, tried to unsteadily get back on his feet. Hands finding ground, head too drunk to keep steady, tumbling into the asphalt, cheek first. Can’t tell the difference between blood and rain. 

An unkind hand pulled his head from the ground, getting him all the way up to his knees by the roots. He breathed water, felt blood run from his nose into his throat. Nothing happened. Raindrops became larger, fell harder. He managed to open his eyes. He could see neon red, a fog of water on his cornea. A diffuse, insignificant human face somewhere behind the half-shut blinds of weather. 

‘The fuck… you waiting… for…’ he heard his own voice croak. He heard that he was smiling. It was hard to smile through a punch to the jaw, but he did his best, before tumbling to the ground again. 

The click of a folding knife. It made him think of Hancock. He wanted to reach for the knife, wherever if was. Flailing, he found it, with his palm, then with his forearms. Through his rain-hazed eyes he could tell that the hand that held the knife was still, surprised, backed into the wall behind it, not prepared for the direction this was going in. Clawing, Tristan dragged himself to his feet by the damp fabric of the Triggerman’s gray suit. Located his face by breath alone, the heat of his own bouncing back like the shockwave of a flamethrower. 

‘What… are you waiting for?’ He knew it must be his own voice, because the man in front of him didn’t move his mouth, it was just open in a blank, shocked stare. It didn’t sound like his voice at all. Fumbling, Tristan found the hand with the knife again, blade first. His hand was slippery. Must be the blood. He found the wrist that held the knife. _Finally_.

The pain was excruciating, but unexpected. His blood-slick hand slid away from the wrist, away from the knife; he could see relief shrink away like the end of a tunnel. Falling to the ground again, he was surprised the pain came from the landing. He was far away from the man with the knife, far beneath the skies of Goodneighbor, suddenly very close to a familiar face. 

‘What are you doing?!’ Kit. It was Kit. He sounded angry. Tristan was glad Kit held his chest armor so hard, because he was sure he would fall off the ground otherwise. But then, the ghoul let go and stood up again, and Tristan was so sure he would fall through the earth, he managed to drag himself up to a sitting position just by the panicked grasping he responded with. He looked up at Kit. He looked even more angry than he sounded. 

‘You know, I knew you weren’t all right in there,’ the ghoul muttered, stiffly waving his tommy gun somewhere around Tristan’s head, ‘But I honestly didn’t expect you to resort to stabbing people in the streets. Or am I missing something here?’ 

Tristan didn’t think Kit sounded as if he found that very likely. ‘I didn’t…’ The whole world spun when he closed his eyes to try and think. ‘Not my knife.’ He looked down at his hand. He could see a tendon on the back of it. A steady stream of blood pooled from several deep cuts along his hand and arm. He looked around the rest of his body. Slowly gathered that the pain must have come from Kit pulling him away, not a knife entering his abdomen.

‘Thought you were the mayor’s new toy. Shouldn’t he be keeping an eye on you?’ 

The blood was mesmerizing. Suddenly, it wasn’t just on Tristan, it smeared over Kit’s face, his throat, his beige suit. Tristan couldn’t grip properly with his right hand, he resorted to clawing, tearing, anything. He felt the barrel of the rifle in his ribs, felt the broken part in his body, couldn’t stop. He knew Kit wouldn’t pull the trigger, not intentionally. 

The pressure of the barrel disappeared. He vaguely noticed how Kit’s face softened. Sadness. He didn’t look Tristan in the eye. Tristan couldn’t move his arms. They were stuck. Someone held them away from Kit.

‘Have you lost your mind?’ If Tristan didn’t know Hancock, he wouldn’t have noticed the fear in his voice. Now, it cut through him like being blinded by sunlight. His whole body instinctively collapsed in the grip as soon as he realized who it belonged to. It didn’t last. As soon as Hancock relaxed, Tristan tore away, fleeing, falling against the opposite wall, spinning around to reject anything attempting to come near. By the look on Hancock’s face, Tristan realized he must look even worse than he felt. 

‘I’m not your toy.’

Hancock’s lips parted, his eyes widened; a face completely unable to stop its surprised, hurt look. It was all the answer Tristan wished he hadn’t felt he needed. He saw the wound he had caused; a red, bloody gash among all the rain and blood and neon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter this time, but that felt right. WOOPS WENT ALL SAD EH :C


	17. Tenacious

_ morning, day 2. 1/3 capsules taken_

_//_

_sun high in the sky, day 2. 2/3 capsules taken_

_//_

_evening, almost dark, day 2. 3/3 capsules taken_

_//_

_slept too long. couldn’t get up. radroaches. seem to keep away.  
day 3, 1/3 capsules taken._

_//_

_i tried to not go north, but now i realize i’ve circled back to do that anyway.  
day 3, 2/3 capsules taken._

_//_

_very dark. saw a deathclaw a ways off. looked but didn’t see me. or maybe did and didn’t care.  
day 3, 3/3 capsules taken._

_//  
antibiotics fucking up my stomach. unpleasant.  
hairline fracture in rib very bruised, but healing.  
running out of compresses.  
stitching ugly. should’ve kept playing instruments. ambidexterity insufficient.  
that’s not how that works, is it?  
day 4, 1/3 capsules taken._

_//  
cried a lot. don’t know why. hard to breathe.  
stitching on left arm came lose too early. messy. but at least could fix with right hand.  
day 4 2/3 capsules taken. _

_//_

_day 4 3/3 capsules taken. hope it helped. ran out of antibiotics._

_//  
_

Tristan could tell he broke off a well-crafted, long-brewing, jovial greeting. He had hoped it wasn’t that bad. But if even Cait could be interrupted, he knew it was even worse than he felt he must look. 

‘Oh, honey…’ It was a whisper; parental, painful. Her usually so firm, blunt touches were now a hand scared to break a fragile crystal animal as it fell onto his shoulder. He looked up into her bright green eyes, realizing he must be stooping. Cait’s other hand softly cupped around his gaunt cheek. She, naturally, wanted to ask what had happened, but she also knew this was not the time for Tristan to answer that. She, if anyone, knew. He couldn’t have gone to anyone else, but the fact that she _knew_ was painful in itself. It was like falling into a mirror.

She led him, arm hooked in his, towards a shack he had not seen before. He didn’t look up, but something about the dim light around him was different. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted that the people around here had probably finally gotten to work rebuilding. It smelled different. Not that it was easy to tell above how he himself smelled right now. Sour misery. 

A soft surface met his face. Lying down was not his ribcage’s favorite pastime right now, but every other part of him felt as if they started incoherent recitals of prayers. These past few days he had just lain down on the spot every time his legs collapsed under him. He had woken up breathing mud, dust, and various kinds of goo he would rather never think about again. Dizziness hit as his body tried to cope with being in a sofa, as if soft compliance was a compromise to his state of mind right now. 

‘I fucked up,’ he whispered as he saw Cait sit down in front of his face, brow knitted. Without a hint of hesitation at the sticky, stringy mess it was, she almost feverishly stroked him over his hair. 

‘Oh, honey…’ she repeated, as if those words were the only thing that could express an approximation of the hurt she felt looking at him. 

Tristan knew. Someone else would probably only have seen fear for his well-being in Cait’s jade irises, but Tristan knew that she also wanted him to hold off telling her. Because she was scared he had finally done something she wouldn’t be able to readily forgive. Tristan knew, because that was why he didn’t say anything else before falling asleep.

//

Through a haze he flitted through time, not knowing what passed as reality and what was the lull of dreams. He saw two people kissing, familiarly, in mutual understanding. _Bye, honey, see you tonight_. Was that him and Nora? No, he and Nora never went that far in their play-acting of the nuclear family. Apart from that one time, when Mr. and Mrs. Thrushwell decided to become ingratiatingly suspicious of Tristan and Nora’s membership in the Normality Club and stooped to staring through their windows every time they passed. Then, they had kissed. And then Nora had waved, smile so bright it burned deep enough to even get to Mr. Thrushwell’s deeply buried sense of shame.

‘Cait…’ he croaked as a hand carefully landed on his arm. 

‘It’s me, chief.’ It was MacCready’s voice. He sounded older. _How long has it been?_

‘We need to get some water into you, okay?’ 

Tristan heard the familiar sound of a can of purified water being opened. Bracing feebly against the surface under him, he groaned a little. 

‘I want to…sit,’ he pushed out in between his strained breathing. His back was very tired of being in a horizontal position. 

MacCready moved quickly and sharply enough as if he was trying to catch a falling, invaluable vase from tumbling to the floor, as he grabbed hold of Tristan’s shaking shoulders, helping him up. Tristan scoffed softly but realized he would probably not have made it to this triumphant vertical situation without the mercenary’s help. 

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. They felt as if they had been glued shut for days. He rubbed them, trying to push as hard as he usually did, but his hands felt unable to comply, like when you can’t run in a dream. 

‘Am I… awake?’ It sounded stupid, but he needed to know.

‘If you’re not, this is a pretty shitty dream world to make up.’ A small smile and concerned eyes on MacCready’s face. The smile tried to get rid of the worried eyes, but it seemed looking at Tristan made not looking concerned impossible. MacCready was tanned, looking incredibly healthy, hair sun-bleached, a hint of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

Tristan’s weak hand brushed over the bruised part of ribcage underneath his surprisingly clean shirt. He realized he had never seen the navy-blue t shirt he wore before. The pain under his hand was different. Dulled. _Healing_. He quickly glanced down at the dressings on his arms. Clean, new, neat. He pulled at the blanket around his shoulders to also cover his entire arms and hands. 

Exhaling through his nose sharply, he took the can MacCready had been holding out towards him for longer than was socially comfortable. The water sent his head spinning. He felt like a machine that had been left to rust in some dirty corner of a garage only to out of nowhere be powered up because spring was here now, like it or not. He coughed for a while as he removed the can from his dry lips, completing the image of an old, tired generator that should’ve been left alone. 

He saw MacCready react to something next to him and stand up. Tristan felt as if he’d rather shoot himself in the hand than turn his head to see what had caused MacCready to move. He heard lips meet, a hand meeting skin in two soft pats, and then Cait sat down in front of him, where MacCready had just been. 

‘Thank you,’ Tristan said, quietly, after a few seconds of just looking into Cait’s face. It turned his throat into a ball. He blinked, his dark eyelashes sticking together. 

Cait demonstratively shook her head, let out a sigh that sounded frustrated, and moved to sit next to Tristan on the faded, once-blue sofa. She put her arm around his shoulders. It was so familiar; the memory of the time they spent together in an intoxicated, reckless haze felt like looking back at an almost forgotten youth. When they had taken turns given each other comforting arms around each other’s shoulders. He instinctively leaned into her, pulling his legs up against his body and hugging them. She wrapped her other arm around him as well and placed a kiss on the crown of his head. _That must be washed too_. He pressed his overheated forehead against the side of her throat. She squeezed him tightly, her arms feeling like a warm, comforting cage around him. 

‘I need to know if you did this to yourself, darling,’ she said softly, chin resting on his head, hand stroking slowly across his back. 

‘No.’ He frowned against her skin. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Not really.’

‘Went looking for a fight again?’ 

He tried to swallow, but mostly his throat just made a sound. ‘I think I… Worse than usual. In another way. Maybe. I don’t know…’ As he spoke, he realized just _how_ fragmentary his memories of that night in Goodneighbor was. He had been so hazily sure – he had been attacked and then Kit and Hancock got angry. Now, forced to speak, he realized how disconnected those two things seemed. He didn’t know Kit that well, but Hancock—

And then it hit him. The memory of Hancock’s look at him. His own words. His own words that _made_ Hancock look at him like that. Rain across Hancock’s disbelieving, hurt face like neon tears. Tristan’s fear, panic like being chased by a deathclaw in the middle of the night. Panic, panic as the world shatters behind you, one devastating, deliberate rip at a time.

‘I broke it,’ he coughed out before succumbing to a sort of convulsion somewhere between a sob and a shout. The panic made him tear away from Cait in a desperate attempt at breathing. She quickly let him go, waiting for him to calm down, as long as it took. Just as he had waited for her many times so long ago, out in the wasteland of the Commonwealth. 

When he finally found some resemblance of rhythm in his breathing again, she simply held out the can of water to him. He took it, used the water to assist the regularity of breaths, to force down the ball a little bit. 

‘If you want, you can tell me about it from the beginning,’ Cait said, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Tristan. He felt so beyond nausea at this point that he gratefully took it, just because it was yet another thing that was familiar, the same as it had always been. The same in 2077. The same in this future he kept falling through.

‘Stop me if I bore you,’ he said quietly, but steadily, which he was incredibly grateful for. He finally felt as if he had at least one foot planted on the ground. Perhaps not firmly, but at least it was there, trying to find purchase.

Cait reached out to gently ruffle his black, thick, now shoulder-length, hair. ‘Yeah, promise to just shoot your head off if that happens.’ She laughed. It was short, but it worked like a hot shower on the tension in Tristan’s shoulders. He smiled, quickly, sharply, a laugh-resembling snort coming out of his nose. Muscles he hadn’t used for days. 

‘What would I do without you.’

//

They had moved outside half-way through Tristan’s disjointed re-telling of what he had been through, since MacCready kept peeking in, muttering about how Tristan needed to eat something. Eventually he had resorted to demands and ultimatums, but Tristan suspected it was mostly Cait’s grumbling stomach that had made her finally agree. 

Now, they had eaten, and Tristan hadn’t been able to stop expressing repeated surprise at how edible the food was, to which MacCready had equal trouble hiding how offended he was at Tristan’s shock. To Tristan’s question about why he had never seen this side of the mercenary before, MacCready just deadpan looked at him and said ‘We got shot at a lot’ before wandering off to what Tristan realized was a huge patch of corn and tato plants, shovel over his shoulder. 

‘That’s a powerful frown you’ve got there,’ Cait said with a grin, causing Tristan to snap out of staring after the young mercenary who now looked a lot more like an apocalyptic farmer. 

‘He just looks so… well. It’s amazing.’

Cait stretched preeningly before folding her arms behind her head, resting against them. ‘It is _all_ my influence,’ she said, grinning, but then she quickly unfolded her arms and leaned over her legs instead, looking into the small fire they had going on the ground. 

‘Not even good as a joke. He’s been very good to me.’ She smiled and her whole face seemed to relax. Tristan didn’t know if he had ever seen her look so calm before. Two very intense, conflicting feelings collided in him as he watched her – he was so happy for her it almost hurt, but that calm simultaneously felt so alien to him that he almost didn’t believe it could actually exist. He had to cut the onslaught off. 

‘I’m very inclined to believe the first version, to be honest,’ he said, faintly nudging her knee with his can of water. 

‘Yeah, you’re right. I _am_ pretty magical,’ she laughed. 

She still hadn’t actually said anything about everything he had told her. A trembling nervousness ran like an undercurrent in him and had done so all throughout trying to remember everything. They both knew she would have to say something, they both knew she was trying to figure out where to start. It seemed now was the time. She leaned back in the ruined deck chair she sat in, and it creaked under her. They listened to the steady sounds of MacCready’s shovel going into the ground behind them for a while.

‘Okay, first, shouldn’t you _talk_ to him?’

He had been prepared for that. 

‘I get that that sounds like the, you know… _right_ thing to do, but… You don’t know how he looked at me. It’s beyond over, believe me. It was a long time coming, it was… well, you know it wasn’t exactly the first time I freaked him out.’ He did his best to ignore how his voice started to sound as if it came from someone else. 

Cait didn’t look at him. She was chewing on her bottom lip, staring into the fire. Something told Tristan she wasn’t convinced. Not that it mattered – he knew what he had seen, and trying to convince himself, or anyone else, of anything else was just going to hurt more.

Cait sighed a little, shrugging. ‘I’m on your side, love, and I believe you, okay? I just don’t want you to do something you regret.’ She paused, shooting him a glance, before going back to looking into the fire. ‘But if you’re sure, then that is how it is.’ She poked the embers of the fire a little, red, glowing flakes flying up into the pitch-black surroundings, dying off into nothing.

‘Alright, second thing, then. What the hell’re you going to do about the Institute?’

‘Yeah. I know. It’s time.’

//

Dogmeat may be the cleverest dog in the Commonwealth. _But he sure could use some training in how to find actual roads when leading the fucking way_. A trail of small pieces of red fabric on dead trees, treacherous pieces of cement, and various marsh plants, marked the path of the two shapes moving north through the Commonwealth. One of them cursed a lot more than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk, wanted to name this chapter Tenacious D(og), because I am apparently a dad.
> 
> Chapters are a little shorter as of late, but I feel it's nicer to actually release SOMETHING a little more often than longer stuff much more seldom. 
> 
> Times are weird, hope everyone's staying healthy and well <3


	18. I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: auto asphyxiation in the very beginning. if that's not your thing, you can start reading at the third to last paragraph of the first part!

_I’m going to have to solve this myself_. Far from the first time, and he knew the dangers. This wasn’t the time to risk anything. He knew his hands would let go on reflex. _Hands it is_. His pulse darted around different speeds at the prospect of what he was doing, as usual. He looked at the somewhat cleaned, torn-up stars-and-stripes in his hand. Hancock hadn’t noticed when Tristan grabbed it after the ghoul had discarded it with a grunt after becoming particularly bloodstained during the whole ordeal with Kendra. “These things are everywhere,” he had stated. Now it hung, still surprisingly whole, from Tristan’s sinewy, dust-stained hand, in anticipation. He could _hear_ his heartbeat at this point. 

With a trembling sigh, he fell back against the sleeping-mats underneath him. He dragged the flag under his neck, twisted it loosely around his throat, one loop… Put the two ends to lie against his chest. The coarse fabric against his skin was enough to send his head spinning. All blood seemed to already be at his groin. 

He held off touching himself for a while, simply moving his hips so that the head of his cock brushed against his pants. Within seconds, he was hard enough to strain painfully against the belt, so he moved to unclasp it, opened the button fly, carefully placing himself against his stomach. 

This time, there could be no one to challenge who this should be about. Without a single detour, his mind went to Hancock’s bare chest in the setting sun, his half-maniacal grin when staring down the barrel of a gun, the times they had kissed, painfully, the way his scraggly fingers grabbed Tristan’s hair, pulled his head back and breathed hotly in his ear. Tristan imagined the ghoul sitting astride him, grabbing hold of the ends of the flag that was once his make-shift belt – pulling slowly, teasingly, narrowing Tristan’s windpipe one inch at a time. He made Hancock tell him he didn’t deserve anything else than this. That he didn’t deserve being touched by him – he would have to solve that himself. 

One of Tristan’s hands went to a slow, tight hold around his shaft, the other grabbed a harder grip around the ends of the flag. He heard himself wheeze, felt the prickling sensation of blood not getting to his face. He barely had to touch himself. In his head, Hancock tore off Tristan’s pants, still one hand around the flag, pulling hard, pressing himself inside Tristan, not giving a shit how much it hurt. 

He felt the cartilage in his throat buckle under the pressure, a quiet cracking sound underneath the tight fabric. Grinding into his own hand, he kept it still, tight, harder. Painful. 

Capillaries in his face bursting. Losing count. Hancock telling him he won’t let go. That this is it. That we had a good run, but you fucked it up. _I’m going to kill you _. His cock ramming itself inside of Tristan relentlessly for the last time. _ You’re nothing to me_.

If there were air in his lungs, he would’ve cried out as he came, but he kept holding onto the flag, cramping, pulling. His head spun so much he had no idea what was up or down. He felt the intense warmth spurting over his hand, not stopping, his hand stiffening around himself. He refused to consciously let go around the flag around his throat, leaving it up to survival instinct if there was one.

_If there is one._

It took a second as he let go before his body understood what it was supposed to do, then a gasp like a roar, coughing; a head trying to cope with the blood flowing back. He couldn’t feel his lips, his hands had gone completely numb, his entire body shaking violently in convulsions. 

That was closer than he thought he would get. Pathetic, miserable loneliness washed over him, making every exhale a whimper. The kind of self-pity one can only allow oneself when no one will come. It hadn’t been enough. Why would it have been this time? 

Tristan squinted into the surrounding half-darkness. A small oil lantern stood next to his mattress, seeming painfully bright to his still stinging eyes. He had insisted on sleeping in the escape tunnel behind the main room of the Railroad HQ, ostensibly for security reasons. He had to stay at HQ, they were going to set the plan in motion first thing in the morning. In reality, he had thought about doing _this_ the entire time trekking down from Sanctuary. It was as if a haze had cleared from his mind now. At least it had been enough to do that. 

Tomorrow he would go back to the Institute. When he left the last time, he had done so to amplify the signal of the radio transmitter in Diamond City. He had been gone far longer than needed, wasn’t sure what he’d meet when he got back. They were in the middle of getting their reactor up and running. Shaun had said they would wait until Tristan came back. He doubted they would’ve waited this long; he didn’t even know how long it had been, didn’t feel like trying to remember. Then again, Shaun seemed to attach almost religious importance to Tristan’s presence at the Institute, even after Bunker Hill, even after all their arguments. For a second, Shaun’s eyes – Nora’s eyes – flashed before Tristan’s memory. He shuddered, instantly feeling colder, weaker. If Cait and MacCready hadn’t insisted on both coming along, he would’ve probably bolted by now. 

He hissed out into the damp, foul-smelling air. No, no, not going down that road again. If he dug his nails into another heap of self-pity, the whole mission would fail simply on account of his sleep-deprivation. He bunched up the extra blanket Deacon had given him in his arms, hugging it tightly; it would have to do. It would have to do.

//

Despite the immediacy of the situation, he still had Shaun’s words from much earlier today ringing in his ears as he stumbled back out into the Railroad HQ, the confusion of teleportation threatening to make him fall. _The Institute is now truly mankind’s best hope. We’ve arrived… You should be there as Director._

He couldn’t help but rapidly go over what had happened in the Directorate meeting. Had he slipped up? The paranoid eyes watching him in that LED-light labyrinthian bunker made him doubt reality. Speeches like politicians, snaking around you, hoping you’ll slip up. Trust as a state waiting for an inevitable misstep. Tristan’s response in such situations was to smile as disarmingly as he could, try his best to think about his every word, match the register around him. But he didn’t know if ‘post-apocalyptic underground superiority-fanatics’ was as close to the Doctors and Lieutenants two-hundred years earlier as Tristan felt they were.

Then, time caught up with him. He realized that the reason he had been allowed to think back these seconds was that the Railroad HQ was _not_ under fire right this moment. Desdemona was standing next to him, a concerned look in her green eyes, cigarette going up to her lips so often he barely saw her exhale in between drags. 

‘You’re still alive. I got here in time,’ Tristan exhaled.

Des raised an eyebrow, then frowned. Tristan looked around, seeing everyone’s eyes on him, expectant. Good. He raised his voice as he continued, making sure everyone heard him.

‘Z1’s rebellion is ready, but we have a crisis. The Brotherhood’s on their way here.’

The reaction was audible – gasps, murmurs, aimless wandering in directions that felt productive. Everything calmed down as Desdemona raised her hand, and let out a sharp, loud wolf-whistle.

‘Remember, we’re prepared for this. Mobilize. Brotherhood incoming.’

Her words seemed to provide the direction everyone needed; suddenly everyone knew their place, even if tension was sky high. MacCready and Cait moved closer to Tristan, weapons at the ready, both giving Tristan an affirmative nod. Tristan looked around. Tried to shake off memories from his past and the devastating outcome of similar situations in the army. They were in a cramped space, fish in a barrel, especially if–

‘Back entrance. They’ve breached the back entrance.’ It was Deacon’s voice, coming from the back of the crypt. It was unnerving to hear it so effective, not a hint of jest anywhere.

Tristan quickly moved up to Deacon with Cait and MacCready on his heels. A momentary stiffness caught him as he heard the familiar hissing of power armor in the narrow passage on the other side of the hole in the wall. Shaking his head slightly, he inhaled, and jumped out into the dusty corridor. 

Headlamps blinded him, but it was almost impossible to miss _some_ target, seeing as the soldiers in power armor filled up the entire width of the tunnel. He tried to aim around the erratic movement of the lamp, knowing that even if he missed the small bright spot, chances were good of getting any of the more fragile parts of the armor up around the head and neck. The sound in the narrow hallway instantly made his ears ring, his hearing muffled under the slew of weapons being fired. There were many of them, but they had to walk in a line. 

_What if I know them_.

The thought caused his hand to cramp around the trigger of the rifle, stiffening it even when he had to reload. He cursed, constantly, as if the angry movement of his tongue would somehow stave off the invasive thoughts and memories. 

Cait was close to him, crouching behind a steel barrel, wielding one of the Institute’s odd-looking, square long-range pistols. Seeing her concentrated, slightly frantic eyes in the dust around them grounded him. _We’re here. That was another life. They are trying to kill us._

_I wish Hancock were here._

Tristan’s knees wobbled. He heard the power armor-donning soldier still approaching, despite all the ammo they kept pumping into them. The blinding light from the headlight made it impossible to see in what state they were in. Through his muted hearing, he heard the hissing steps nearing, shaking the ground. He couldn’t help thinking of a kaiju-movie, despite everything. It was a weird last thought, he managed to scramble together, hunching behind a steel crate with his back towards the approaching Brotherhood soldiers.

Then he saw the laser of MacCready’s rifle, far behind him. He heard it go off, find its mark, and, despite the ringing in his ears, heard the loud, metallic impact of the power armor falling to the ground. Time seemed to stop.

Something hard flew into his side. He saw a can of cram bounce from his arm to the ground and looked up in the direction it came from. Cait stared at him, waving her gun in the direction of the soldiers, shouting something he couldn’t hear. But the message was clear enough. _Snap out of it_.

It seemed the ambush had sent their strongest first. After they had felled them, the scribes were jittery and almost jumped in front of Cait’s and Tristan’s crosshairs. Tristan heard two other power armor suits approaching, but they had no helmets, and as such, were no problem for MacCready. It was obviously not the main attack, and Tristan was anxious to get back to Desdemona. They waited for a minute when it seemed the throng of scribes had stopped coming through, breathing, reloading, listening. 

‘You stay here. If it gets dangerous, call for help, come get me, someone.’ He wasn’t good at giving orders. This wasn’t his place. 

‘We’ve got you chief, go help the others.’ It was MacCready, having moved a little closer from his sniper-spot in the back of the tunnel. Tristan nodded to him and Cait, trying to signal at least a fraction of the overwhelming gratefulness he felt looking at them both. Cait gave him a small, knowing smile and a nod back. 

Desdemona was pacing back and forth back in the crypt, head starting up as Tristan approached. He nodded as a reply to her inquiring frown. She nodded back. 

‘You and Deacon, go help Glory,’ she said, moving to show that she was going to help keep lookout at the back entrance. Tristan started to move, but Des caught his arm, biting her lip before looking up at him, saying quietly so only he heard, ‘Win that fight or we’re all dead.’

He gave her a curt nod. At first, he thought she was being dramatic – she did have a flare for the theatrical – but he quickly saw that it was pure, unfiltered fear. He swallowed, Deacon moving up next to him. Tristan had never seen Desdemona scared, and he had never seen Deacon so cold and hard. For a breath, he was taken aback with alarm at the uncompromising stare that met him as he looked at the usually so inconspicuous-looking man. Then a small, apologetic smirk flashed over Deacon’s face, as if he knew what his face had signaled, as if he was completely aware of what he had slipped into. There was no time for anything else. Loud gunfire echoed from above them and they darted off into the tunnels. 

They didn’t get far before they found Glory. Deacon expertly made quick work of the two scribes trying to get to Glory’s hunched form on the ground, and when they two of them were incapacitated, it seemed no other Brotherhood soldiers were in their immediate vicinity down here. Tristan bounded over to Glory, as Deacon kept a lookout by the tunnel-entrance. 

He couldn’t keep his professional face as he got out of the backlight provided by the intense construction lamp Glory had sunken down next to. Half her face was nothing but a bloody, stringy mess, slowly pulsing out blood at the speed of her heartbeat. He swallowed, trying to muster up memories of all the similar skirmish-injuries he had treated over the years, and finding the ability to set every logical reaction aside. It didn’t work, at least not entirely. He felt his eyes tearing, his jaws clenching as he met Glory’s one remaining eye, seeing that her entire abdomen was nothing but exposed tissue. He could tell she was holding her entrails in with the arm she folded over her stomach. He reached out to smooth away the thick, gray hair that stuck to her face. 

‘You know…’ Her voice was just a cramped wheeze, but Tristan could swear he saw a crooked smile on what remained of her lips. He was in awe of her resilience, he couldn’t help it, and mirrored her smile, feeling how it caused his eyes to tear even more. ‘The Railroad’s always sitting on its hands… You’re the best thing that happened to us.’

‘You’ll…’ He stopped himself. Glory was not a soldier who needed false insurance. ‘It’s been an honor, Glory,’ he said, clasping her shoulder tightly. 

She nodded faintly, eyes becoming dimmer, before letting out a faint whisper. ‘Isn’t there… supposed to be a light?’ 

Tristan froze, staring wide-eyed at Glory’s now still form. The words sent a chill through his entire body and he knew in an instant that this would be one of those things that would haunt him for the rest of his days. 

He shot Deacon a quick glance. It seemed the Brotherhood had still not made it down here. Tristan looked back at Glory, one last time, but then something caught his eye. Or, rather, the lack of something did. He had had to shoot enough people who turned out to be synths to know exactly where in the head the Institute-tech was attached. He was staring at that spot in Glory’s massacred skull. There was nothing there. 

‘Hey!’ 

Tristan was so dumbfounded by what he was staring at that the hiss from Deacon made him fly to his feet, rifle falling out of his lap as he did so. He cursed, picking up the weapon again and forced himself to look away from Glory’s body. 

‘We’ll have time to mourn her later. We gotta get moving, boss,’ Deacon muttered, avoiding looking down on his fallen comrade. 

There was indeed no time to consider any of that right now. Tristan swallowed as Deacon led the way through the tunnels, lit by the cold green light of fluorescent fungus on the walls. It sounded as it there was a veritable _army_ of Brotherhood soldiers up above them in Old North Church. Heavy steel feet stomped around the brittle wooden floor, breaking remnants of pews. As they neared the top of the tunnel system, Tristan started to make out voices, both with and without the telltale filter of power armor helmets. 

Once they made it up to the church proper, things happened very fast. It was a frantic, terrifying darting among piles of wood, broken pillars, and old ghoul-corpses. Tristan felt as if all he did was flee, flee in circles. Every time he thought he was in a place where he could get a shot in, he just had to dive back behind cover, a hair’s breadth away from machine gun fire.

After a while, it seemed as if he and Deacon, joined by a few of the grunts in the Railroad, actually managed to get some sort of synergy going. There were enough of them, and the rhythm was right, to have the mass of Brotherhood soldiers imbalanced. One by one, they fell, some of the big guys in power armor, and many of the less armored, but more agile, foot soldiers and scribes. It started to look as if this wasn’t as impossible as it had seemed. 

One of the Railroad operatives saw an opening to move closer to Tristan, close by the Church’s front door, and Tristan, looking around to confirm the coast was clear, nodded to her to move up. The rest of the Brotherhood group was engaged with Deacon and three other operatives. Tristan kept his eyes on the black, thick curls of the woman and didn’t quite understand what happened at first, as she disappeared from view.

He tried to follow where she had gone and saw her splayed across the floor a few feet away. It was as if sound didn’t make it fast enough, he didn’t understand what happened, where the floor went, where all this light came from. 

Five suits of power armor, and what seemed like a skittering horde of scribes poured through the front door of the church, headlamps like floodlights in the glum old edifice of worship. 

Tristan was hanging from the armored hand of Paladin Brandis. 

‘I fucking knew we shouldn’t have trusted you,’ he spat. Tristan felt surprised both at the venom and the language. The Paladin seemed barely able to contain his rage. ‘I saw how you looked at that vile, treacherous machine.’ _Of course._ A thick glob of spat flew from the Paladin into Tristan’s face before the old man tore the rifle from Tristan’s hand and threw it with the force only power armor allowed a human, across the entire church. The shock of the rapid succession of events started to settle and Tristan begun to realize just how fucked he was. 

He heard Deacon and the rest keeping up the gunfire at the other side of the church, and he even saw some shots whirring around the Paladin, before the rest of the Railroad-squad seemed to realize how likely they were to hit Tristan if they kept it up. The rest of the Brotherhood troops moved further into the church, engaging the Railroad with another relentless barrage of gunfire. No one would be able to make it over to where Tristan and the Paladin were without risking certain death. 

Tristan looked down into the fury-twisted face of the old Paladin. One by one, he plucked the various weapons off Tristan’s body, from shotgun to boot-knife and tossed them out into the church. All the while Tristan tried to claw against the steel-covered limbs that held him, causing nothing but bloodied fingertips. The Paladin had locked the glove of the power armor around Tristan’s throat, not hard enough to choke, but in a place where the bottom of his skull rested uncomfortably against the edge of the glove, completely unable to get out of it. He tried everything: bracing against the torso of the paladin with his feet, spitting in his face, since he didn’t wear a helmet, kicking the comparably soft places around the armor plating. Nothing worked, the paladin only grinned mirthlessly as the spittle got in his eyes and removed it.

Strength quickly seeped out of Tristan’s muscles. The surrounding sound of weapons turning into a dull, monotonous drone. He couldn’t make out if any of the Railroad were still alive. He had caught a glimpse of some more of them approaching from the tunnels, but their path was cut off from Tristan as well. 

A tired, breathy whimper shot out of Tristan as he felt the solid, uncompromising barrel of a laser gun press into his solar plexus. Behind the blurring tears running unhindered from his eyes he saw the shape of the power armor and it made him think of Danse. Fond memories came back to him. The small pockets of joy. He thought of MacCready; the awkward, warm care-taking side that had taken over the mercenary. He thought of Cait. Sister Cait. Unconditional Cait. 

And then he thought of Hancock. 

He put his hand on the barrel of the gun, knowing full-well it would do absolutely nothing. But the sudden movement seemed to still surprise Brandis, seeing as Tristan had just hung lifeless from his grasp for a while now. Tristan realized that the Paladin had been talking, probably for a good half minute. He could guess what it had been about, and he knew he didn’t want to hear it.

‘Hancock…’ Tristan heard himself whisper, and he saw the paladin abruptly go quiet, glaring at him. Apparently, he didn’t like his speech being interrupted. 

Tristan closed his eyes, let go of the barrel, felt that it was appropriate that the last thing he would ever feel was regret. 

Then he fell. He fell for a very long time, knowing he would never hit a floor ever again. 

Until he did. His ankles were completely unprepared to meet a surface, and bent under him like blades of grass, his body flowing suit. _Fuck, it didn’t kill me_. This was the worst way to go. A deadly shot somehow missing everything vital and leaving you to bleed out. For hours if you were really unlucky. Then he realized the Paladin would just finish it off. It felt like a relief. He looked up, determined to meet the gaze of his executioner this time, feeling steeled, feeling as if he was already on bonus time. 

But the Paladin was nowhere to be found. Or rather, Tristan could only see the soles of the feet of the power armor. He had fallen. Out of the dust that flied up like the exhale of a broken machine stepped another figure, coughing harshly. Tristan was one-hundred percent sure he was hallucinating, but didn’t complain, as a red-coated, tricorner hat-donning figure made it out of the dust cloud, shotgun smoking from the recent discharge. It was more difficult to dismiss the vision as unreal as Tristan heard a very familiar, unbearably welcome voice make its way to him, surrounding still-going gunfire be damned. 

‘Miss me?’

//

Deacon had made it, but only three of the fifteen operatives from the Railroad that had tried to help out had survived. The news was delivered and relayed with closed jaws and avoiding looks. 

Tristan hadn’t been able to stop himself. As soon as he had realized Hancock was actually _there_ he had cramped around the wiry ghoul, as if trying to crawl back into reality by making sure he was real. Tristan had been sure he would die, twice, and couldn’t stop the outpour of raw emotion, causing Hancock to clumsily prop them both up against the wall, Tristan still clinging to the fabric of his coat like a lost baby monkey. 

Tristan didn’t remember much. The gunfire had eventually subsided, he had slowly been coaxed back to the land of the living by Hancock’s worried, stern dark eyes. With a tang of sorrow seeping through, the ghoul had made Tristan understand that it was one of those times where everything had to be put on hold, because there was probably still work to be done. It had worked, but it had been very hard not to kiss the ghoul and just run out of there.

He was sure he looked like the death he had extremely narrowly escaped as he made it back to Desdemona, more or less hanging off Hancock’s arm. He could spot Cait and MacCready in the diminished crowd in the HQ and felt a wave of gratefulness at the sight. He saw MacCready perk up, eyes wide in surprise as he spotted Hancock at Tristan’s side. Hancock lazily lifted to fingers to the brim of his hat in response to the mercenary and Tristan saw that MacCready bent down to inform Cait about who the red-coated pirate-looking ghoul at Tristan’s side was. It looked as if she said something along the lines of ‘yeah, I could figure that out myself, silly’ back to the merc at her side. Tristan smiled at them, instinctively tightening his arm around Hancock’s waist. The ghoul grunted softly in reply, hoisting Tristan up a little, nodding towards Desdemona who was, obviously, looking for an explanation to the stranger in her headquarters. 

Tristan coughed a little before speaking, lingering emotion and dust hoarse in his throat. ‘Oh, right. This is Hancock, he’s my, ah…’

‘Mayor of Goodneighbor,’ Hancock finished, confidently putting out his left hand to greet Desdemona, seeing as his right arm was busy supporting Tristan. 

‘That’s the one,’ Tristan wheezed, nodding a little and feeling waves of tiredness wash over him where he hung off the ghoul. 

‘And happy to help your cause,’ the ghoul added pointedly, as he realized he would get no help out of Tristan right now. He also realized that the Railroad needed Tristan to at least _look_ as if he was ready for the action Desdemona certainly had in mind right now, so he deftly managed to lean the man against one of the brick-supports next to them. Putting a finger underneath Tristan’s chin, he forced him to look into his eyes and gave him the most deliberate look he could. To the ghoul’s relief, it seemed as if the look made Tristan become aware of his surroundings, both in physical and strategical sense. He cleared his throat, his face reddening and he, albeit a little wobblily, stood up straight without help from the wall. 

‘Sorry, had a bit of a … close call,’ Tristan said sheepishly, but then decided it would have to be the last of the vulnerability he showed for now. He could tell his behavior made Desdemona anxious. As he fell silent, she simply looked at him for a few seconds, as if to test the readiness he tried to convey. Tristan was quite certain he did not manage to express anything but idiotic bravado, but whatever was the truth, Desdemona didn’t seem to care. She shrugged and begun the pacing she always got up to when thinking, or when nervous. Tristan guessed she was both right now. 

‘The Brotherhood underestimated us badly. Their next attack will be far, far worse.’ She stopped, putting her hands down on the big round stone table in the middle of the room. ‘So we do the unexpected.’ Tristan was, to his own surprise, glad to hear the trademark dramatic flare make it back into Desdemona’s voice. 

‘We eliminate the Brotherhood as a threat,’ she continued, ‘Now. And the key to that is destroying their flying fortress: the Prydwen.’

Tristan felt his stomach knot. The immediate worry was simply the scale of such an operation, and the incredible danger. Behind it lurked other, more diffuse apprehensions. Memories, sentimentality. However, through those emerged a white-hot, clear rage. And the realization that this was retribution. In his emotional rollercoaster, he had lost focus on the discussion for a while, but he heard them calling the plan “Red Glare” and that they needed a vertibird to get onto the Prydwen, and place explosives on the blimp.

‘What about the Institute?’ he said, as soon as that question surprised him by entering his head. 

Des looked up at him. ‘They’re not the immediate threat. The Brotherhood is. So, we need that vertibird.’

Tristan nodded. She was right. He realized now that he had needed someone else to explain that to him, because he had lost his ability to prioritize. 

‘Where can we find one of those?’

‘The Brotherhood’s occupied the Cambridge Police Station. Spotters report they almost always have a vertibird parked on its roof. Take it.’

Another knot in his stomach. This one made Tristan have to support himself on the pillar next to him again. He hoped he managed to make it look a lot more casual than it felt to him. Going back there scared him. He didn’t have a better plan. There was no better plan. 

‘Tom and Deacon know what to do once you find the vertibird. Get a move on.’

Tristan could tell that Tinker Tom was unhappy about the situation. He muttered constantly under his breath about how this whole plan would expose them to the Institute and how it would all be for nothing in the end. 

Tom’s muttering was their soundtrack the entire trip to the police station, and though it was quiet, it made conversation difficult. Tristan didn’t know what to talk about right now, either way. He needed to stay effective, not risk any mental detours. But halfway there, something hit him. He knew how dangerous his lies-by-omission had a tendency to turn. He fell back, signaling for Hancock to join him. The ghoul had also stayed quiet up until now, seemingly as focused on the job as Tristan and Deacon.

‘I used to run with the Brotherhood.’

Hancock stopped dead in his tracks. Tristan gave him a careful look to make him move again, to not alarm Deacon and Tom. The ghoul slowly, mechanically started moving again, still with an incredulous glare at Tristan. 

‘They’re disgusting. Absolute fucking maniacs. Before I knew that, I thought they could help me. With… everything.’ Tristan tried to pick words that were both true and that he hoped would quickly kill any suspicions about his allegiances to Hancock. Judging by the way the ghoul’s shoulders sunk down again, it seemed to have worked. ‘I’ll tell you all you want to know about it later, if you wish, I promise. But, I just needed you to know that. If something, I don’t know… _happens_.’ He made a grimace as he said it, unhappy with how little he could trust himself. ‘And… Jesus. We have… God, I know we have _so_ much to talk about that is a lot more important that this, I have been so… I didn’t mean what I said in Goodneighbor, I don’t know what came over me. I can’t even believe you’re back and I—'

‘I don’t know how you keep surprising me, but here we are,’ Hancock muttered, interrupting Tristan. It wasn’t strange that he sounded pissed, Tristan thought, but it still hurt. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Tristan whispered and regretted it instantly. This wasn’t the time. Hancock stopped, shooting Deacon and Tom a glance to make sure they kept walking. Then he softly laced his fingers in Tristan’s and leaned closer to him. 

‘Hey,’ he grunted quietly. ‘You’re not the only one with a checkered past. I ain’t judging ya, I’m just bad at surprises.’ He looked up into Tristan’s eyes, who could feel his heart tighten at it. 

‘And yeah, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, but what you did back at the church and what you’re ramblin’ about now… I guess at least it’s proof you don’t hate me. I… I had to make sure of that after you ran off. That I hadn’t hurt ya’. Didn’t expect to find you that close to death.’ He muttered, voice even lower, before he quickly, as if he unable to stop himself, kissed Tristan on the lips. Then he leaned back, sighing through his nostrils. ‘We need to keep moving,’ he said with a sly smile, looking towards the vanishing backs of Tom and Deacon. 

Tristan nodded, half-managing to calm himself down with a long, deep breath. They set off jogging after the two others, the silhouette of the barricade of the police station towering in the misty morning in front of them. 

//

_Of course it’s fucking him_

‘I was… right about you.’ A loud, phlegmy wheeze.

‘And look where it got you,’ Tristan said, quietly.

‘Did you kill him?’ Rhys said, after a pause. Tristan was taken aback; he had never heard this tone in Rhys’s voice. Sorrow. Almost desperation. 

Tristan’s 10mm handgun rested against Rhys’s chest. This was the way it would have to be. And that meant there was no reason to keep secrets. 

‘No,’ Tristan whispered, cursing inwardly as it made it impossible to keep the memories of his tense stand-off with Danse at bay. ‘No, of course not.’

Silent tears poured down Rhys’s dirty cheeks. ‘Good…. Good.’ He coughed, a splash of blood shooting up through his lips. ‘You ruined everything,’ he wheezed. 

‘You did that to yourselves.’ He pulled the trigger, knowing full well what it would do to his hearing at this distance. At this point, the ringing was familiar. He didn’t turn to look at Rhys, just walked off to meet Tom and Deacon by the vertibird. Hancock had hovered like a shadow besides him as he talked to Rhys, realizing quickly that this was someone from Tristan’s past. It seemed that knowing he would have permission to ask anything later left a lot of space for action. 

Tom was already seated in the vertibird as they made it to the roof, rotor blades whirring loudly. Deacon stood on the ground next to him, unable to pick where it was most suitable to direct his anxious gaze – the doorway where Tristan had not appeared yet, or Tom in the vertibird. As Tristan and Hancock approached, his worried eyes gained a frown as they were now frozen at Tom’s confused pushing and pulling at the vertibird-panel’s various buttons and levers. 

‘Let’s go,’ Deacon said as Tristan and Hancock made it up to the loud machine. It sounded more like a question than anything else. 

They climbed in and, admittedly to Tristan’s, and visibly also Deacon’s, surprise the vertibird instantly left the ground. Tom was constantly muttering to himself still. 

‘You know _more_ than just how to get this thing off the ground, right?’ Deacon said a little unsteadily as the machine darted through the air and rapidly made it to a height that would make a fall very deadly. 

‘Sure, sure, read the manual cover to cover.’ The vertibird made an alarming turn, causing all passengers to gasp. Tristan involuntarily reached out and grabbed Hancock’s bony knee, and quickly let go as the machine returned to a somewhat upright position again. The ghoul chuckled a little, absolutely seeming to be the one least concerned about their situation. 

‘See? Just like falling off a log.’ Tom said with a strained voice.

‘Can we refrain from using idioms that include “falling,” please?’ Deacon groaned. Then he added, under his breath, when the vertibird sputtered in another unexpected direction ‘Dear god, we’re dead.’

But, as they went along, the trip got steadier, and Tristan allowed himself a little bit of the contemplative mood that always set in when he found himself high above ground. Perspective on the Commonwealth. Super mutants and feral ghouls roaming the streets like little toys on a gameboard. He started a little, surprised, when he felt Hancock’s hand find his between them, well hidden from Tom and Deacon. The ghoul didn’t look at him, he kept his eyes out over the broken landscape beneath them. He simply grunted and squeezed Tristan’s hand when he noticed how he looked at the ghoul. Deacon’s voice drew Tristan away from the momentary calm of the flight.

‘Okay, so. With your colorful history with the Brotherhood,’ he said, giving Tristan a look over his dark round sunglasses, ‘As soon as they spot you, it’s game time. So, maybe you can play the sneak card. I got you this stealth boy.’

He pulled the square device from the backpack he had put on the ground. Tristan didn’t like using them, he always felt an almost panicked disconnect to the world when he couldn’t see his own body. But he definitely got the point of it this time around. 

‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting it. ‘I’ve got some of them on my own, actually,’ he said, nodding to his own bag, before reaching down and finding two of them, reaching them to Hancock. The ghoul sighed but took them. As soon as Hancock had placed the small devices in his own bag, his hand determinedly made its way back down to Tristan’s. 

‘Odds are you’ll get made,’ Deacon continued, ‘Once that happens, I’d run like hell, place the bombs, and somehow get out alive.’

Tristan felt a quick spasm in Hancock’s hand that quickly relaxed, betraying how involuntary it had been. Tristan responded by stroking his thumb over Hancock’s rough skin. 

‘It’s going to be one hell of a firefight,’ Deacon said, and they could all now see the massive blimp in front of them. ‘And my job is to be Tom’s lookout and make sure any looky-loos keep walking.’ He frowned. ‘Tom, we’re getting closer to the blimp, can you fly just a _little_ straighter?

‘Deacon, man, I’m trying.’ There was something uncommonly sober in Tom’s voice, as if the situation was too tense to be bothering with conspiracy-paranoia. ‘If you want to give it a whirl, I won’t stop you.’

Everyone in the virtibird started as a loud voice sounded from the machine’s radio.

‘Claymore, you’re cleared for launch bay 3. Deck officer is requesting an update on the police station.’

Deacon harshly snatched the communication device next to the speaker and held it up to his mouth. ‘Uh… Hostiles eliminated.’

Tristan couldn’t help shooting him a wide-eyed look. _We’re fucked_.

A loud hiss came through the radio. ‘Scimitar’s status? Confirm.’

‘Scimitar took some fire. Should be up and running in a few hours.’

Tristan felt his eyes become even wider as he heard Deacon now. Not a single hint of insecurity. Deacon gave Tristan a wink. He couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. The radio sounded again. 

‘We have a visual on you, Claymore. Your docking port’s not open.’

Deacon gave Tom a hard stare. Beads of sweat immediately showed on Tom’s forehead. He frantically went over the labels of the various buttons around the control panel. With a twitch, he pressed one, exhaling as the docking port opened with a loud hiss. 

‘Right, Romeo and Romeo, it’s up to you now.’ Deacon said quietly as Tristan and Hancock prepared to start up their first stealth boys. 

‘Can we refrain from using references where everyone dies in the end, please?’ Tristan whispered with a small smile to Deacon. 

Deacon snorted, gave him an encouraging finger gun to underline how much he saw what Tristan did there, and then, in a much more somber voice, whispered, ‘Good luck. You’ll need it.’

//

It surprised Tristan at the time, but perhaps not in hindsight, the state he was in going through the Prydwen. It was a blind, hot rage, and a fierce, constant awareness of where Hancock was, and that he was still alive. It was all he had, those two things, guiding him. Stealth boys only got them so far, but they were still useful even when everyone in the enormous blimp where shooting at them. Just that fact that people were _shooting_ in this big deathtrap was enough to make Tristan want to hurry more than physically possible. There was no room for hesitation, only darting from cover to cover, mad-dashing to get the bombs in place, and getting the fuck out of there. 

And then it went. With a dull, bright, sky-brightening explosion, the Prydwen went up in flames and slowly plummeted to the ground like gigantic, burning tissue paper. It was beautiful. It felt as if there wasn’t possibly anything to say, before Tom managed to actually mutter what they were all, at some level, feeling.

‘I need a drink’

//

It was done. For now. Tired, confirmative words were exchanged back at HQ. They all knew that the Institute was next, but also that everyone needed a good, long rest before even thinking about that. 

So many needs pressed on Tristan and, though it wasn’t practical, Hancock was at the very top of that list to the point where he could barely think. He had often declined sleeping at the Railroad HQ, even when he was dashing back and forth doing jobs for them every other day. It was too crowded, too communal for him, he felt exposed and anxious there. As such, he had found a surprisingly intact part of an office in a nearby building, which had a lock and everything. He managed to communicate this to Hancock is a somewhat haphazard manner, and to his delight, it did seem as if Hancock’s priorities mirrored his own right now. 

As soon as they made it into the stairway of the old office building, Hancock just exhaled and seemed to give in to something, pushing Tristan against the nearest wall, kissing him. It was different, and Tristan was surprised. It was a lot softer, but at the same time much more intense than any other kiss they had shared. His knees almost completely buckled, and he couldn’t stop himself from moaning into Hancock’s mouth, trying to put every one of his painful, longing emotions into that kiss. The ghoul’s hands found Tristan’s long black hair, nestling into it, short nails against his scalp. The heat coming off Hancock’s body caused a drop of sweat to slowly make its way down along Tristan’s spine. It made him shudder. He reluctantly leaned away from the kiss. 

‘Need to… keys,’ he mumbled. Hancock moved away, understanding the message, but he didn’t let go of Tristan’s hair. He lazily undid small nots there, absentmindedly, while watching Tristan clumsily rummage through his small hip-pouch. Eventually, he found them and the two of them half-tumbled into the room, Tristan locking the door behind him as he slammed the sturdy door shut with Hancock’s body. 

Tristan had thrown most of the original furnishing away and replaced it with the cleanest mattresses he could find piled in a heap, with various half-intact pieces of cloth and other make-shift sheets on top of it. Next to the door was an all-in-all quite okay two-person sofa of an undistinguishable color. He hadn’t been here for a long time and dust had settled, he figured. He devoted that whole situation a very small thought in between trying to decide which part of Hancock to bury his hand in first. 

The ghoul was quicker. He found the clasps of Tristan’s various pieces of armor fast, and let them fall to the floor, clouds of dust confirming Tristan’s concerns about the state of the room. Still with his mouth close to Tristan’s he threw his hat on the sofa before he, with a grunt, shrugged off his coat. It seemed the frilly shirt belonging to the John Hancock-getup had either been lost, or deemed in too damaged a state to be worn again; Hancock wore a simple and as such, slightly timeless, gray linen shirt, with a deep cut neck. It was almost an identical cut to the old shirt, just a little less extravagant. Tristan shot the shirt an appreciative look to which Hancock gave a playful nod.

But it was difficult for them to break physical contact off with anything even slightly intellectual. Tristan had often thought of himself as a wild animal at various points as of late, but this was ridiculous. He forcefully pulled at the waistband of Hancock’s thick trousers to close the small distance between them. Instead of going back to his mouth, he buried his nose in the bent underneath the ghoul’s jaw, inhaling deeply. It caused Hancock to claw at Tristan’s back in response. Tristan bit down on the thick, ridged skin on Hancock’s throat, earning an even deeper grip against his shoulder blades and caused a half-stifled moan to escape Hancock. 

The ghoul growled and pushed Tristan away from himself hard enough for him to fall, landing on his ass on the heap of mattresses behind him. Surprised, he looked up at the ghoul, a shadow falling over Hancock’s gleaming eyes from his deep frown. He was baring his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. The sight went straight to Tristan’s already straining groin. He exhaled in a shiver. 

Like a stalking animal, Hancock slowly walked up to Tristan where he sat, ending up with his crotch a few inches from Tristan’s face. Tristan didn’t need any further encouragement, and didn’t even know if it was what the ghoul had intended, but his hands quickly found Hancock’s belt and the button fly on his trousers. The ghoul grabbed Tristan’s hair as the dark-haired man coaxed the stiff, heavily scarred cock out of his pants. 

Tristan couldn’t stop himself, he felt as if he had longed to have Hancock in his mouth since the first time he saw him. He probably had. Without preamble, he, shivering all over, ran his tongue along the length of it, breathing harshly at the uneven surface, reaching up to steady himself by holding on to the bent where Hancock’s thighs met his ass. Hancock’s hand immediately tightened around Tristan’s hair and he let out a loud, sharp hiss. Tristan reached the head of the ghoul’s cock and eagerly took it in his mouth, going as far down as he could, then shifting his head to be able to go even further. A surprised gasp escaped Hancock. 

‘Fucking… hell,’ he spurted out before Tristan pulled back, gasping a little. Hancock didn’t let him rest. Tristan caught a mischievous gleam in the ghoul’s eye before he was guided back to the cock in front of him, helpless to resist now in Hancock's harsh grip around his hair. The ghoul shifted him this time, only using his own sensation to gauge what was comfortable. It hurt at the back of Tristan’s throat before Hancock found the right angle, which caused Tristan’s own cock to twitch violently, a burst of precum leaking up into the fabric of the vault suit. Hancock held him fast. Not a single little part of a breath could make it past Hancock’s warm length in Tristan’s throat. He melted slowly into the dizzying loss of air, hands cramping around the ghoul’s ass, and then Hancock pulled away. 

Tristan sputtered, coughed. He heard Hancock curse far away. Tristan was busy getting his breath back for a while, before realizing Hancock didn’t come near again. He saw, in his periphery, how the ghoul grimaced while tucking himself back into his pants again. Then he sat down in front of Tristan on his knees. Tristan was confused, and it showed as he looked into the ghoul’s face. A quick smile brushed over Hancock, but then he went back to a sort of frowning concern. He reached out, cupped Tristan’s cheek and stroked his stubble with his thumb. 

‘I know you’re into this,’ he said softly in his hoarse voice, ‘And obviously I ain’t exactly of a differing opinion.’

Tristan didn’t know where this was going. Was it like with Danse? No, Danse was different. In every way. 

‘I can’t trust you to tell me to stop, can I?’ Hancock said, eyes steady in Tristan’s. He felt his lips part slowly. He couldn’t look away. Didn’t know how to answer. 

‘So, until I _can_… Let’s do this a little less… precariously, yeah?’ The ghoul gave Tristan small smile and leaned in to kiss him, carefully, softly, looking for a go-ahead. 

The softness, despite the state of Hancock’s skin, of the kiss made Tristan’s whole chest cramp. To dull the overwhelming feeling, he kissed Hancock back, tried to not make it as feverish as he felt. He pulled, half-crampingly, but as softly as he could, at Hancock’s shirt and the ghoul complied, crawling up to end up on top of Tristan on the heap of mattresses. 

This was a first. Tristan looked up at the ghoul above him, felt the warmth of his body against his own, their still hard cocks rubbing against each other among the fabric. He couldn’t keep his gaze there, had to dive into the warm skin in the nape of the ghoul’s neck, inhale the dust in his hair that, despite everything, still mostly smelled of Hancock. A sweet, deep smell of spices and warmth. Tristan bucked up against the ghoul, tried to somehow transfer the almost painful need of his entire body. He couldn’t tell what the need was for anymore. It had seemed so clear just minutes earlier. Sex, body, mindlessness. And now… He still wanted Hancock’s body like he had never wanted anything, but this was suddenly completely different. 

Hancock’s touches were firm, but kind. His hands found the zipper of the vault suit and got Tristan’s upper body out of it. He traced the lines of his muscles, slowly, almost reverently, humming approval into Tristan’s ear, placing resolute kisses along his neck, collarbones and jawline. Tristan’s hands knew what they wanted, what they usually went for. He let them trace Hancock’s back through the shirt, and underneath it. Hancock’s voice kept humming approval at it, pressed down into Tristan’s body, hips grinding against hips. Tristan gasped, head spinning faster and faster from the strange constriction he started to feel across his chest. _What the hell is going on_.

Suddenly, he was terrified. Acutely, absolutely, doubtlessly terrified. His whole body froze underneath the ghoul, who responded immediately by stopping all his movement, leaning back to look into Tristan’s eyes. Tristan felt the clump in his throat and the tears forming in his eyes. His brain kept shouting _what is happening what is happening what is happening _ until Hancock seemed to know exactly what was needed. Tristan had no idea how. The ghoul simply sank down next to Tristan, firmly holding him against his chest, letting him lean into the fabric there. It was like pushing a button. Tristan lost track of time; he just knew that he didn’t think he would ever stop crying.

Finally, he did. In small, cramped gasps he tried to talk, still buried against the ridges of Hancock’s chest. 

‘It’s not… that I don’t want… to,’ he gasped between shudders.

‘I know,’ Hancock answered almost before Tristan had gotten what he tried to say out. 

‘I just… I don’t know what happened…’ 

Hancock didn’t say anything for a while. He simply stroked Tristan’s sweat-damp hair and placed his chin softly against the crown of his head. 

‘Look, no shame from you, okay?’ he said quietly. Tristan thought it was a rhetorical question, but it seemed Hancock actually wanted an answer. 

‘Okay,’ Tristan whispered, fiddling with the waistband at the back of Hancock’s trousers absentmindedly. 

‘You want to do this in five minutes again, or in five months again, I'll be here. And if this happens again, that’s fine and no one will blame ya.’ He fell silent for a while. 

‘And if you just wanna, you know… spoon and talk about cool guns a whole night, that’s fine too. I’m not gonna assume you’re ah…’ It was as if Tristan could hear the ghoul frown as he tried to find a word. ‘Down to fuck.’ He shrugged and Tristan scoffed before realizing he was chuckling in Hancock’s embrace. ‘I ain’t a poet. Sorry about that.’

‘You’re everything I need,’ Tristan heard himself say. 

Hancock hummed softly in reply. It was hard to tell if it was a surprised or a content sound. Tristan felt much steadier than just a few minutes earlier. He tightened his grip a little around Hancock, who responded with a squeeze of his own. 

‘I hear what you’re saying. I appreciate it.’ He frowned. ‘No, that is… extremely insufficient. But, anyway. I think it was a reaction to… uhm… everything, though. Not that it won’t happen again, it probably will at some point. But I just, I mean…’ He sighed sharply. Nothing came out the way he wanted. 

‘I’m not a poet either. I think what I’m trying to say is that I _can_ fuck without it being violent. It’s not a requirement at all. In fact….’ He paused, sighing, shaking his head against the ghoul’s chest. 

‘I realize that you've figured this shit out already, now that I think about it…’ He paused again. He still needed to say all this, for himself. ‘Okay, yeah. It’s a defense mechanism and it’s not healthy, the way I do it now. You’re right. I wouldn’t have… told you when to stop.’

Hancock was silent for a while again, then he softly kissed the top of Tristan’s head. ‘Takes one to know one,’ he murmured dully before they both drifted off to sleep. 

//

_Five minutes or five months from now_. Tristan turned his head. It had definitely been more than five minutes since they fell asleep. The moon shone in through the dirty single window in the room and caused the entire place to bathe in a cold, silvery light. His whole body hurt, muscles tense and sore, mouth dry. Hancock had turned around beside him, his back sinking and rising with the slow breaths he was taking. Tristan heaved himself up to sit, lazily grabbing next to him where he knew there was a box of canned water. He found it and downed a whole can in one breath. He couldn’t stop his very loud exhale as he removed the can from his lips. The sound caused Hancock to stir. 

‘Water…?’ he croaked. Tristan chuckled silently at the sleepy drawl of the ghoul’s voice. He reached over to grab another can, opened it and placed it in front of Hancock’s face. The ghoul sat up the bare minimum needed to not accidentally pour all the water over himself when drinking, and then, when he was finished, plopped down against the mattress with a content sigh again. 

Tristan looked down at the tent in his underwear with a silent sigh. The emotional outpouring had cleared his head. Made him confront a lot of bullshit he had been telling himself. And now, it seemed, all blood had decided to pool in his groin and be annoying. He carefully laid down again, putting his arm around Hancock, but didn’t press up against him, in case he was not in the mood to get a dick against his back. It was for naught, however, because as soon as Tristan placed his arm around the ghoul, he pressed back against Tristan, meeting his hard-on with a content mutter. 

The ghoul didn’t do anything more than that, however. Tristan realized Hancock would be careful about taking initiative after what had happened. Tentatively, Tristan pressed his hips towards Hancock to gauge the situation. For all he knew that whole thing had put the ghoul squarely out of mood. The reaction was a twitch which Tristan first took as a move away, but which he realized was just surprise, as the ghoul responded by pressing back harder against him. Tristan moaned softly into the back of Hancock’s head as he felt his foreskin slip over the head of his dick at Hancock’s motion. 

Quickly, Tristan’s hand slipped under Hancock’s shirt, swiftly getting the thing off him. He had instinctively gone for the place where nipples usually were, realizing there were none to be found on the ghoul. However, he noticed a harsh shiver go through the entire ghoul as he traced one of the radiation scars that ran across his pecs. The ghoul moaned down into the various fabrics underneath himself, angling his body so that Tristan ended up half on top of him. He kept grinding against Tristan, sending his head spinning. He didn’t feel the intense need to hurt and get hurt, not at all, which momentarily surprised him – it had been so long since that happened. But, fucking hell, if he didn’t feel _need_. 

Thankfully, they were yet again in the same mindset it seemed. With a small hiss, Hancock seemed to have had enough of the teasing and quickly got out of his pants, kicking them away from the bed. Tristan had already gotten out of the vault suit in a sleep-hazed tumble earlier and simply pulled down his loose-fitting underwear, meeting Hancock’s skin with his feverishly hot cock. He exhaled harshly as he rubbed against Hancock’s warm skin, sliding between his cheeks. Hancock muttered a drunk-sounding ‘fuck’ into a heap of cloth, reached back to hold onto Tristan’s leg and shifted so that he was completely on his stomach now, Tristan on top of him. 

The ghoul turned his head to get a bit of air and Tristan leaned down to kiss his shoulder, his neck, firmly grabbed a hold of the blonde horse-hair like mess on Hancock’s head without pulling, simply tracing his scalp with his nails. Hancock shivered, a small chuckle escaping him as he looked back mischievously at Tristan. He raised his hips up onto Tristan, who gasped a little, squeezed fast between Hancock’s cheeks, a coil of precum pooling in the small of the ghoul’s back. 

‘You better get that thing into me soon, or I am going to lose my fucking mind,’ Hancock mumbled into Tristan’s ear, that had ended up next to him as he bent over at the sensation in his groin. The ghoul’s words sent a shiver through him. Tristan sat up, his head complaining with an intense spin as he did so. He took a second to simply appreciate the view of Hancock’s naked, scarred, simultaneously strong and wiry body splayed out in the moonlight. Then he cleared his throat and leaned back to a small drawer where he kept various oil that seemed to be used for everything these days – cooking, weapons, body lotion, lube. 

Hancock breathed rapidly, grabbing the fabric around him as Tristan’s finger went inside him, while the other hand traced the skin on his back. Just the sounds the ghoul made made Tristan’s cock leak all over the place. He shook his head slightly at himself, moving to place another finger inside the ghoul. He was far from new to this, Tristan could tell. 

‘Just…’ Hancock growled. ‘Fuck me already.’

Some other time, Tristan might have utilized the opportunity to tease, but the plea could have just as well been his own. He moved to place himself at Hancock’s opening, to which the ghoul moaned gratefully, burying his face even deeper in the farbric. Then he slowly, carefully slid in, Hancock helping him along expertly. Once all the way in he had to stay still, for his own sake, for a while. He leaned down over Hancock, feeling him tense and relax around him, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to last more than a few seconds. He reached round to place his arm underneath the ghoul and, with a tug, he lifted him up from the ground, placing him on his lap with his back against his chest. Hancock gasped at the new angle Tristan was in now and tensed up, before finding a comfortable placement. It seemed it hit a much better spot, however, because precum started to leak out of the ghoul in a steady stream as he moved a little up and down in Tristan’s lap.

Tristan leaned his damp forehead against the ghoul’s back, folding both his arms around him, licking the salt off his skin eagerly. Hancock shuddered. Tristan stopped his movement, he had to breathe again, and did so against the back in front of him. He knew what he wanted to do. He didn’t know if it was okay. What Hancock would think. How he himself would react. He cleared his throat. 

‘Could you… lie on your back?’ he mumbled against Hancock, realizing that maybe the ghoul might not even hear him. He felt the ghoul momentarily tense up, but instantly relax again, and he slid off Tristan, sucking his teeth. Then he turned around to face him, placed a kiss on his lips and smiled, before dramatically falling back on top of the heap of fabric, arms straight out from his body and a huge grin on his face. 

Tristan let out a spontaneous laugh at the show, feeling that threateningly intense warmth from earlier in his chest. He waited to see if he could handle it. It seemed he could. So he crawled over on top of Hancock, who met him by wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, before reaching down and swiftly guiding Tristan back inside himself. Tristan had to break off the kiss with a loud gasp. Hancock managed to stifle his own with a sly grin.

As Tristan started to move inside Hancock the ghoul met his rhythm and Tristan felt as if they became one thing, occasionally falling into a desperate grabbing onto each other, because this world didn’t allow for anything else, but managing to hold the Big Fear at bay. He kept his head buried against Hancock’s neck, listening to his breaths against his ear, feeling his hands along his back, grabbing his cheeks, tangling his hair. They built up together and Tristan leaned back a little. He wanted to watch. 

He was met by a face he had never seen before on the ghoul. Something Tristan had only glimpsed at unguarded moments, without even really realizing this was what he had seen, was on Hancock’s face. The knowing grin, the calculating, hard stare, the dangerous, cold predator, none of it was there. A soft, vulnerable man – as scared as Tristan to ruin everything – looked back into Tristan’s face. The look stayed there as he climaxed, breathing into Tristan’s mouth. Tristan simply watched in awe, almost taken by surprise as his own orgasm crested and reeled into Hancock’s. 

After many shocked, laughter-broken, heavy breaths, Tristan collapsed onto Hancock’s chest, out of time, out of body, exactly where he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: sorry gais, chapters will be a little shorter now
> 
> also me: here's a 10500 wordcount-chaptersorrynotsorry
> 
> hope you enjoyed this rollercoaster <3


	19. Mirror

Tristan opened his eyes to still dark surroundings. Seemed the moon had abandoned the night skies of the Commonwealth for now. Nevertheless, Hancock’s definitely open eyes were shining in the darkness, only a few inches away from Tristan’s. They narrowed as the ghoul noticed that Tristan had opened his. 

‘Still don’t know how you don’t flinch when this face sneaks up on ya,’ Hancock muttered with a half-smile that Tristan only barely made out. He involuntarily felt his eyebrows sunk over his eyes at the ghoul’s words. 

‘I enjoy looking at your face. Thought you’d noticed by now.’

Hancock scoffed, turning over on his back, frowning. ‘Yeah, no, I’ve noticed. I just don’t get it.’

‘I take it you _don’t_ enjoy looking at it,’ Tristan said, sitting up with a grunt.

‘No, that was kind of the whole point of it,’ Hancock continued to mutter, but even quieter now, before following Tristan’s example and sitting up himself. 

Tristan stood up, stretched half-heartedly, and peered out through the dark window. He realized they couldn’t have dozed off for more than an hour. Wouldn’t have minded staying asleep. Seemed his brain, and Hancock, had other ideas on priorities now, however. He guessed it was what he got for having such messed up priorities to begin with today. Sighing slowly through his nose, he sunk down against the desk besides the window.

‘Speaking of looking,’ Tristan said, finding a mostly intact cigarette in a terribly battered package in a forgotten pouch on his armor. ‘Could you, ah… tell me what it looked like to _you_? You know, back in… back in Goodneighbor.’ 

He didn’t mean to look away, but he realized he couldn’t meet Hancock’s eyes. He wanted to get this out of the way but would rather speak of just about anything else. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hancock’s head snapping up from lighting a cigarette of his own, waiting for Tristan to look at him, but not being sated in that regard. The black-haired, scrawny man instead kept staring aimlessly in the direction of the window.

‘What it looked like, huh,’ Hancock mumbled with the cigarette between his lips. Tristan wished he had sounded less annoyed. ‘It looked like you had sliced yourself up and then went to town on Kit out of nowhere.’

Tristan didn’t know what to say. He wanted to protest, to set things right, but he immediately realized that he didn’t know – maybe that _was_ what had happened. The one thing he was determined to not keep doing was lying. To anyone else, to himself, or out of omission. Now, he was scared he wouldn’t be able to keep to that determination, just on account of not being able to tell what was real. 

The silence was uncomfortable for them both, judging by the tapping feet and clearing of throats, and rapid drags on cigarettes. Hancock raked a frustrated hand through his tangled blonde hair and stood up, causing Tristan to look at him finally. It didn’t last long; the intense stare from the ghoul made him throw his eyes down again, biting the inside of his lower lip.

‘Think I need you to tell me that _wasn’t_ what was going on, love,’ Hancock said, softer, stopping his pacing. He sighed into the dust around him. 

Tristan swallowed, a ball having instantly formed in his chest as Hancock said that. 

‘What if it was,’ he managed to croak out before a surprised sob ended the sentence. His hand flew up to his mouth, silencing himself. Before he could move away, Hancock was in front of him, hands cradling his cheeks. One of his thumbs stroked away a tear Tristan tried to stop on its way down his cheek, before realizing that wasn’t how human bodies worked. 

‘Hey, hey…’ Hancock soothed, pressing his thin lips against Tristan’s warm forehead. Tristan reached out to hold onto Hancock, softer than he had back in the church above the Railroad HQ, but still rather harshly, pressing his face into the ghoul’s hard chest, trying to find purchase somewhere along the ridges and scars on his back. Hancock let him, gently stroking Tristan’s hair with one hand, a small grunt escaping him as Tristan’s forehead dug into his sternum. They stayed like that for a while, Tristan’s cigarette having fallen to the ground, and Hancock taking long, slow drags on his while still petting Tristan’s hair, letting his fingers follow the outline of his ears, trail along his neck.

‘Tell me what you remember,’ Hancock said when Tristan had stilled his breathing and slowly leaned back from the ghoul. 

Tristan found a relatively clean bandana in the heap of clothes he had left on the chair by the desk. He wiped his face with it, trying not to inhale the weird smell coming off the piece of cloth. It was like old damp. 

‘It’s…’ he sighed loudly. ‘It’s a lot of emotions that I’m not proud of. At all. They’re not going to be fair. To you. You deserve–’

‘Just tell me,’ Hancock interrupted. He unceremoniously threw Tristan’s clothes off the chair and wheeled it over so that he could sit facing him. He lit another cigarette and offered it to Tristan before lighting one for himself. 

‘Self-doubt. I… Jealousy? Though of what, who the fuck knows. I felt alone in there, in the Third Rail. I saw you… Just, you know, in your element. Being you. being magnificent.’ He gestured towards Hancock, not meeting his eye again, feeling warmth rise in his face as a response to a lot of things. Shame, mostly. But other things as well. He thought of the way Hancock moved in a crowd, his razor-eyes in the dark, his blatant disregard for logic, his love-affair with danger. 

‘I was a lot more drunk that I should’ve gotten. Not saying that’s an excuse, just saying that’s why I was even less capable of reasoning with myself. It’s–I guess it’s been kind of a lot lately. Since… Since I woke up, I haven’t really had the opportunity to stop and think. Or, I haven’t wanted to. The thought of doing that is scaring the shit out of me.’

He scratched his scalp, too hard for comfort. More like a way of grounding himself. 

‘It worked. Sort of. I mean, because I had a goal, or I didn’t have anything to lose anymore, one or the other. First, I was going after Shaun, then I was just being alive without knowing why. And now I…’ He paused. Had forgotten where he was going with this. He shook his head a little. ‘I guess it’s to do with what happened earlier, tonight, I mean, a little at least. Hurting myself to… To not think about it, I guess. I get all hazy when I get like that, I can’t think straight, I just want it to happen.’ 

Another frustrated sigh shot out of him. ‘A psychologist would have a fucking field day with this,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway. Yes, I went looking for a fight. I… don’t remember if I hurt myself, or if I got attacked, honestly. I… I _do_ remember why I jumped Kit, though.’ 

He knew there was no chance in hell he could leave it at that, but any words he could think of continuing with got stuck in his throat, like a physical blockage. He swallowed several times. It didn’t help. 

‘Guessing it had something to do with what you said to me, huh?’ Hancock broke the silence. He had put his foot up on his knee and leaned back into the chair as if it could not bother him less that he was completely naked. Tristan didn’t dare look anywhere but straight into the ghoul’s eyes. Not that it was a completely safe place as far as his emotions were concerned. It resulted in another quick look away, but this time he couldn’t help but smile at himself. 

‘Yeah. Those were Kit’s words. He said I was just your toy,’ he said before scoffing. ‘Lucky shot at my insecurities. It’s not like he and I ever… had a conversation or anything.’

Tristan could swear he saw Hancock’s shoulders sink down a little as he said that.

‘What a fucking asshole.’ Hancock’s voice was venom, but Tristan couldn’t help laughing, relieved.

‘Yeah, no, that’s… Very accurate.’ Tristan said, still smiling. ‘I’m sorry. I am _so_ sorry for saying that to you. I didn’t believe it. It was just me being scared of the possibility.’

Hancock remained silent and Tristan shot him a look, seeing that it was apparently the ghoul’s turn to stare into the floorboards. Maybe it was a little early to expect forgiveness. 

‘You’re not alone in being scared,’ Hancock suddenly said, voice sounding a little strained. ‘About this whole…’ he waved towards Tristan, ‘arrangement.’ He paused, the foot resting on his knee, moving restlessly. ‘But I didn’t _get_ that until that night. When you said that though, man…’ He let out a short laugh. ‘Terrified.’

They were both silent. Tristan could hear his heart beating in his chest. He could say so much more, but he was completely overwhelmed already. The fuse leading to his heart exploding seemed to get shorter by the day. 

‘Hey, how did you find me anyway?’ He wringed all the potent emotion out of his voice for now.

‘Dogmeat,’ Hancock said, instantly leaning back in the chair again, grinning. Seemed he was grateful about Tristan’s change of tone. 

Tristan raised an eyebrow. ‘He… went to get you? On his own?’

‘Well, see, I tried to ask him but… My dog’s a little rusty.’

Tristan laughed. ‘Well. However he did that, I am obviously grateful he did.’ He fell silent, noticing how Hancock was unabashedly studying his body. It became very obvious how naked he was himself under the smiling scrutiny of the ghoul. 

‘Look at us, huh,’ Hancock said, still with a smile. ‘Had my doubts when we first hit the road.’

Tristan decided – after some struggle with the thought of pulling something over himself – to adapt Hancock’s not-two-shits-given stance on his bareness. He crossed his arms over his chest, cocking an eyebrow at his ghoul companion. 

‘Oh yeah? What kind of doubts?

‘You kiddin’ me?’ Hancock laughed, putting his elbow on the back of the chair and leaning into it, still watching Tristan with half-lidded, content eyes. ‘You looked like you’d fallen out of the Vault that day. Thought I’d see you pickin’ your teeth out of the gutter by sunup.’ 

‘Fair enough,’ Tristan said, smiling back, knowing it was probably painfully true. They shared another cigarette, passing it between the two of them as Hancock continued. Tristan also made sure they had a can of water each.

‘It’s just rare these days,’ Hancock continued, ‘Finding someone who’s not just willing to take things the way they’re handed to them. Too many good folks not willing to get their hands dirty and too many assholes taking advantage of it.’

Tristan often felt as if he were unsure whether he deserved the praise Hancock directed his way, whether he could actually claim to share the violent revolution for good Hancock had undertaken in the Commonwealth. But now… His judgment of himself was obviously all messed up, for one. Also, it wasn’t as if he disagreed with Hancock’s vision. At all. 

‘Look at what happened to Diamond City,’ Hancock continued after having downed half a can of water. Tristan looked up at him. He didn’t really know what the ghoul was getting at. 

‘Before McDonough took over, it was a half-decent place to live. A little stricter than I usually go for, but not _terrible_. I thought he and I had a pretty happy childhood.’

Tristan felt his eyes go wider, but Hancock wasn’t looking at him, he was gesticulating in front of him as he talked, looking out into the darkness of the room.

‘But then,’ the ghoul said, his voice a little nearer a menacing growl than before, ‘he decides he’s gonna try and get elected with his anti-ghoul crusade – “Mankind for McDonough.” Before you know it, you got families with kids lining up to drag folks they called “neighbor” out of their homes and throw ‘em to the ruins.’ He had basically been spitting it all out, knuckles unconsciously whitening against the water can in his hand. 

‘You… and McDonough knew each other as kids?’ A whole new world had exploded in Tristan’s head, of a small Hancock running around the green, rusty stands in Diamond City. It sent his head reeling. 

Hancock muttered, passing the almost-finished cigarette back to Tristan without looking him in the eye, shrugging tensely. ‘Guy’s my brother. Grew up together in a little shack on the waterfront. Was the standard big brother – entitled, punchy, liked to shove rotten tatoes down my shirt and slap my back.’ He sighed, shaking his head softly. When he continued, he spoke quieter. ‘But I never thought he’d be capable of something like what they did to those ghouls.’

‘Why did he campaign against them?’ Tristan could image it was the same logic that was behind most us-and-them-thoughts, as much as he hoped there would be some other, less familiar reason.

‘Because he thought he could win,’ Hancock said dryly. Tristan sighed.

Hancock took a deeper breath before continuing, sitting up a little straighter, leaning over his legs. It made it difficult for Tristan to see his face; it was all in shadow. 

‘There’d always been a pretty clear divide between the folks living in the stands and those down on the field. I’m not convinced they didn’t do it just to improve their view. I remember storming into his office above the stands after the inauguration speech. He was just standing there, staring out the window, watching as the city turned on the ghouls. He didn’t even look at me, just said: “I did it, John. It’s finally mine.”’

Another ball formed in Tristan’s stomach, and another bang joined in the explosion that was the window to Hancock’s past. The ghoul dragged a hand through his hair, something Tristan thought Hancock might have picked up from him, just as Tristan had noticed he was constantly flicking his thumb against every cigarette he held, just like Hancock did.

‘Should’ve killed him… right there. But I don’t think it would have changed anything. Instead, I pleaded with him, begged him to call it off.’ Hancock sat up straighter again, a mirthless smile on his lips at the memory. ‘He said he couldn’t. He had nothing against the ghouls. He was just “carrying out the will of the people.” And he couldn’t betray the voters.’ Tristan saw Hancock’s jaw bulge under the tension of his teeth clenching.

‘And then he smiled. That hideous, fucking mile-long smile. He never smiled like that when we were kids. I didn’t even recognize him.’

‘Something must’ve happened to make him do it?’ Tristan said, realizing Hancock probably wouldn’t have left out telling him if that were the case. He shook his head. ‘What do you mean you didn’t recognize him?’

Hancock sunk back against the back of the chair. ‘Don’t know. Just didn’t seem like the guy I grew up with. You know…’ He stubbed out the cigarette on the table next to him. ‘When I first hear the rumor he’d been swapped for a Synth, thinking back to that night, I thought it made a lot of sense. But now… I don’t know. I don’t think I buy it. I’ve seen him since then and there’s no way they copied him that perfectly. Even got his tight-ass walk. But at the time, I just needed to get the hell away from him. They murdered every single ghoul who didn’t run. Him and that whole damned city.’

‘That’s… Jesus.’

Hancock nodded, pressing his lips together. ‘I still wasn’t a ghoul at that point so I didn’t _have_ to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay in that cesspool after that. I’d been sneaking off to Goodneighbor for years to get decent chems, so I knew the safe routes. I managed to track down a couple of the families, led ‘em there, but most couldn’t get used to the… Goodneighbor lifestyle. I brought them food for a couple of weeks, but after a while, they just disappeared. Folks in Diamond City signed their death warrants and all the _good people_ were willing to just sit by and watch.’

There was a subtle change in Hancock’s voice the further he went on. The radiation-scarred state of his vocal cords didn’t allow it fully, but still his voice was a little higher, that little bit less a growl again.

‘I felt like I was the only one who saw how screwed up things truly were, who couldn’t just pretend things were fine. Still feel that way…’ He sighed softly, looking at Tristan for the first time since he dug into this memory. 

There it was again. Not at the exact same level of rawness as it was earlier, but Tristan could see it clearer now; a Hancock allowing himself to be a little less detached from the man he used to be.

‘Or I did. Until I met you.’ He gave Tristan a vague smile, though his eyes were still tired, a deep-rooted sadness impossible to hide shining through. Before Tristan could reply, Hancock continued.

‘I know I run my mouth, but having someone who sees the world for what it is and is willing to do something about it… It’s meant a lot to me. I feel damn lucky to have you as a friend.’

Tristan wished he didn’t feel the pang at the word. He knew it could mean more than that, that it wasn’t an end, that it wasn’t cutting him off. Everything Hancock had just said proved – if proof was what his annoying self-doubt needed – that this was important. Remembering his earlier promises to himself, seeking a way out of another hole of stubborn doubt, Tristan tried a small smile.

‘You… might have noticed I had some trouble introducing you to the Railroad before. It wasn’t _just_ the… well whatever that whole situation was. Calling you a _friend_ seemed insufficient.’

Hancock chuckled, standing up and closing the two steps of distance between them. Tristan’s skin felt all but chilly next to the warmth Hancock’s body radiated. The ghoul reached up to put some stray strands of hair behind Tristan’s ear. It sent shivers through him, which he couldn’t hide. Hancock raised his eyebrows in a gesture alarmingly close to a wiggle. Tristan rolled his eyes. 

‘Honestly, everything seems insufficient when I try to describe you,’ Tristan continued quietly. Hancock leaned in to kiss him, sighing as he did so. 

‘Well,’ Hancock said, putting his forehead against Tristan’s and absentmindedly dragging what was left of nails on his scarred fingers through the black hair on Tristan’s chest. ‘I feel–I’m starting to feel as if _this_… is where I belong.’ He tapped a finger softly against Tristan. ‘But… Okay, there’s another thing as well.’ He leaned back, but not far enough so that Tristan felt he had to let go of the arms he had clasped around the ghoul.

‘I’ve kept pretty clean around you,’ Hancock continued, curtly.

Tristan felt his whole body stiffen. It was as if this conversation had been this nagging little itch in the back of his head, and he hadn’t been able to tell what that itch was about. 

‘Because I can tell,’ the ghoul added.

Tristan simply nodded in response. 

‘And you got drunk in Goodneighbor… And, well.’ Hancock pointedly let it trail off. ‘So how bad is it?’

‘I should probably be able to answer that.’

‘I ain’t saying that,’ Hancock said, gently dislodging himself from Tristan’s grasp and sitting next to him against the desk, close enough for their bare thighs to touch. 

With a grunt, Tristan quickly went to get one of the unzipped sleeping bags heaped on the mattresses on the floor. If he was going to talk about this, he needed some godamn cover. Hancock stopped him halfway back and guided them to sit on the pile of mattresses instead. Tristan draped the sleeping bag around their shoulders, and they leaned against the off-puttingly mushy wall behind them. A puff of moisture-damage smell hit them.

‘I think it’s only booze, actually. I think… I think I should stay off that completely.’ He had never said it out loud. ‘Everything else, it’s… never had the same effect, or, I don’t know… filled the same hole? It was the same before–Before, well before the _apocalypse_.’

‘Sounds dramatic when you put it that way,’ Hancock muttered with a small smile. He was leaning his head against the wall, slightly inclined towards the ceiling, eyes closed.

‘It _was_ the literal end of the world as we knew it.’

‘Fair enough, sunshine.’

‘But yeah. I wouldn’t have admitted it back then, I guess. Easier to see now. Hindsight, yada, yada.’ He saw his nails going back and forth over his knee, unable to stop it, and then he saw Hancock’s hand snake underneath it, entwining his fingers with his. For some reason, it almost made him cry, and he had to wait before saying anything else.

‘I was always lucky with all other drugs. I never felt that pull with it. It’s fun, it can fill a function. Maybe some day I’ll have the same relationship with Jet, or Mentats, or I don’t know… paint thinner, as I do with alcohol, but until then, I think I’m just going to try and fuck myself up when the situation calls for it on whatever works for the moment.’ He squeezed Hancock’s hand, unbearably happy it stayed where it was. ‘I’m sure any doctor, or psychiatrist, or whatever, would roll their eyes at this logic until their eyeball fell off their optical nerve, but…’

‘It _is_ the end of the world, after all.’

Tristan scoffed. ‘Exactly.’ He sank down, leaning against Hancock’s neck, burying his nose there and inhaling. It wasn’t subtle, but he couldn’t resist. He felt the ghoul starting, looking down at him, and snorting before chuckling a little. 

‘So, what do you need from me?’ Hancock said after a while, Tristan still nestled against his neck. 

‘Oh,’ Tristan heard himself saying. ‘Um, I–I think whatever you want to do is fine, honestly. I don’t fall into those… weird spirals if I don’t drink. So, you know, just _leaving_ if I feel that my party mood has vacated the building is not an _actual_ problem. My jealousy was never about you.’

Hancock hummed, leaning his cheek against Tristan’s head underneath him. ‘I’ve always been that… yeah, _lucky_, as you said. For some reason. Not like I deserve it. But I’ve always been able to go clean whenever I’ve needed, just like that. Fucking life lottery but, hey, here I am, with a winning ticket.’ 

He hummed again, leaning back to be able to look properly at Tristan, putting a finger underneath his chin. Tristan felt an instant pull at the base of his spine. ‘_Two_ winning tickets now.’

//

It was well into the afternoon when Tristan and Hancock stepped down into the Railroad HQ again, and that with a very steady iguana bits and actually-radiation-damage-free Salisbury steak two-hour long lunch behind them. While their night hadn’t cleared every little bit of uncertainty between him and Hancock, Tristan really couldn’t remember the last time he felt this firmly anchored to reality. Which was probably a good thing, seeing what was going to have to happen today, had he judged the situation in the Commonwealth correctly. 

Desdemona gave Tristan a strained, but sincere, smile as he approached. Smoke coiled up around her from the cigarette in her hand. She was leaning, her back against the big circular shape used as a strategy-table, arms crossed, brows furrowed. 

‘So, is the church safe now?’ Tristan asked, looking around the place, trying to gather the situation. It was uncommonly hushed in here, but he still felt as if there were more people around than there could’ve been. Small victories. 

Des gave a small nod and sighed, then shrugged. It seemed to be a collection of the different answers to his question. ‘With the Prydwen destroyed, the Brotherhood’s survivors will leave the Commonwealth. On foot.’ She stood up straight, beginning to sort through various papers on the table, seemingly more to have something to do with her hands than anything else. 

‘If the Brotherhood managed to find us, you can bet your ass the SRB is not far behind. We’ve run out of time. Our next step is to attack the Institute.’

It aligned with what Tristan had thought would be the logical course of action, but it still made his stomach drop. Then again, they had managed the Brotherhood – another impossible task. And she was right – it wasn’t as if the Institute was going to leave them alone now, it was just a question of who struck first. And the Railroad wouldn’t stand a chance if it weren’t them who did.

‘Once I get in, what’s the plan?’

‘Secure the Relay inside the Institute. The instant you do, they and the SRB will mobilize.’

Tristan and Des exchanged a look, both acknowledging the lunacy of this plan, and the inevitability of it. Des continued.

‘So, teleport us in quickly. We join forces with Z1-14 and the rebel synths, then together we fight our way to the fusion reactor.’

Tristan felt his eyebrows sink over his eyes. This plan had changed direction so many times he feared losing track of what he was supposed to do. And there really was no room for that.

‘What about rescuing synths?’

‘We need our best people doing the tricky part of the operation. So that means you.’ She gave him a tight-lipped little smile. He exhaled through his nostrils.

They spent some time making sure everyone knew what was happening, the order of things, hypothesis of things that could go wrong, worst-case scenarios. Tristan was unsure if it helped. Deacon pointed out that it was impossible to know who was or wasn’t a synth – if anyone had ratted them out, or suspected things, anyone could be a duplicate. Best not to talk to anyone, just get what needed to be done done. 

Tristan tried to not think about Shaun. It was easier said than done. 

Eventually, they all felt they had etched everything into their memory as well as they could. Silence fell around the table and Tristan stood up straight, preparing to initiate the teleportation frequency into the Institute. For the last time. 

It felt right. Despite everything, this felt like doing the most right thing in this entire mess. Extreme. But what the hell wasn’t. _I’m sorry Nora. I’m sorry this is how it turned out. I’m trying to make it right again._

Hancock stepped up to Tristan as he turned away from the table, putting a hand on his arm, which started him out of his staring at the dim green screen of the Pip-boy. 

‘Get us in there quickly, yeah?’ he said quietly, squeezing Tristan’s upper arm. ‘Not great when I’m worried,’ he added with a scoff. 

Tristan leaned over to kiss him quickly, to which Hancock grunted a little, trying to smile and not quite succeeding. 

‘See you soon,’ Tristan said, hoping that were true.

//

‘We’ll need to clear this room before I can do more,’ Z1-14 said, as calmly as he always said everything. 

The tall, gaunt synth was squatting by the wall, fiddling with some tool, ostensibly doing the same repairs as everyone else in here. Everyone else but five armed synths of the not-mistakable-for-humans variety who were patrolling the room, making it all but crowded. Why all the security? He was fidgety as it was, this did not help. Just trying to walk casually down here without raising suspicion had been a herculean task. He was hoping everyone in the Institute drew the same judgmental conclusions as always – it was the effect of topside, radiation damage, mental deterioration, sinning, whatever it was they were telling themselves about Tristan. 

Clear the room. Well. That was what he was going to have to do then. One of the helmeted synths brushed past him and Tristan acted on impulse. He had asked for the nasty blade from the Pickman gallery back from Hancock earlier, and now stuck it into the wiring behind the soft skin-like material in the synth’s neck. Seemed the jagged blade made as much of a mess of electrical devices as it did veins. With a violent jerk, the synth went taut and fell over on the floor with a loud crash. The four other guards were instantly altered, naturally. Two of them extended electrified batons and dashed towards Tristan, the other two ducked behind some of the shelves in the room, rapidly firing beams of laser in his direction. 

Tristan too went around the corner of a massive steel shelf full of sturdy steel crates, hearing the sharp noise of laser meeting the metal. He noticed that several of the ‘civilian’ synths stayed in the room and went, flailing their work-tools wildly, against the guards as well. He wished they had all left it up to him, especially when he saw two of the synths fly against the wall in lifeless heaps from meeting the harsh swing of the batons. 

Cursing under his breath, he tore the wicked-looking modified wrench from the side of his backpack, realizing speed was what he would have to prioritize to not lose more of the synths they were supposedly here to save. He had never been fond of the idea of sacrifice for the cause, even if he knew there could be a point to it, and that the idea of free will left the option open of people doing just that. 

With a loud _clang_ the spike-covered end of the wrench met the side of a synth-guard’s torso. It crumbled down on one knee, leaving an exposed shoulder and neck, at which Tristan swung with all his might, all but screaming as he did so. With a hiss, he felt the simultaneously blunt and sharp pain of the electrified baton of the other synth meet the back of his knee. The electricity surged through his entire side, but thankfully it was his left one, otherwise he would have dropped anything he held.

It wasn’t the easiest sensation to shrug off, but he managed, meeting the underside of the synth’s jaw hard with an uppercut-swing of the wrench. He recoiled as it took the entire head off the synth, sending it tumbling across the floor. He didn’t have much time to think about how unsettling it was that neither of the two remaining guards even reacted to the head spinning towards them – shots in quick succession whirred past, and against, him from their laser pistols. Fearing the noise coming from this room by now, still knowing that speed was of the essence, he grit his teeth, ignored the sound of his skin being burnt from the shots meeting the exposed bits around his armor pieces, and stormed the two guards, wrench first. 

The sizzle of electronics and Tristan’s labored breathing were the only sounds heard in the room within seconds. He leaned on one of the shelves, seeing that the two initial civilian synths were the only casualties apart from the four guards. More small victories. He had probably at least ten more burn marks across his body from that onslaught of laser, however. At least they were cauterized. 

‘Get to work. No turning back now,’ he said as Z1-14 cautiously walked over to him across the still twitching limbs of synths on the floor. ‘Let’s get our people in here.’

//

Hancock didn’t seem to even try to bother hiding his relief as the Railroad-group came through the teleport. He practically jogged over to Tristan and stood close to him, shotgun at the ready, letting out a relieved sigh as he brushed against the man’s arm. 

‘Thank fuck for that,’ the ghoul muttered under his breath. 

Tristan had felt, and kept feeling, a wave of happiness at the whole succession of actions. He smirked a little at everyone’s wide-eyed looking around at the surroundings, knowing full-well he had done the same the first time he got here. And this was just a half-forgotten storage area. Des was the first to shrug off the bewilderment, quickly moving towards Tristan holding out a square device with a menacing yellow and black protrusion on it.

‘The fusion pulse charge,’ she said as Tristan took it and secured it on the side of his backpack. ‘Tinker Tom’s rigged it to take out the reactor and anything else within a few hundred yards of it. We get you down there, you plant it, and we run like hell. When we get to a safe distance, we detonate it remotely.’ She turned from Tristan as she continued, looking everyone around her in the eye. 

‘Then, then whole Institute goes up like a candle. And the synths stay free. Forever. This is the moment where we make history.’ 

She was met with subdued, encouraging, exhilarated murmuring. It was what the situation demanded, but anywhere else, it would have been a loud, feverish cheer. Des turned back to Tristan, as the rest of the group started doing last-minute checks of their weapons and armor.

‘So, like we talked about, you need to go through the old robotics wing, stay out of sight as much as possible. But it leads to the Bioscience wing. And they will know then. And we will be out there in the rest of this place to raise hell. Tom will let you know if anything comes up that means we have to change plans.’

She clapped him on the shoulder, and smiled, less strained than every other time she had smiled at him before, it seemed. ‘Let’s show them what we’re made of.’

//

Hanging off Hancock’s arm, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear Tom’s stressed voice, coming though the loudspeaker of the Biolab of all places. He stared at the floor in front of him. Two large, previously very enraged, gorillas lay there, slumped over in bloodied heaps. It felt like a bigger loss than the slew of scientists strewn across the sickeningly white floor, now stained with pools, flecks, and streaks of blood. Hancock hoisted him up a bit more and jammed a stimpak into his side, the third in a row. That ape had got him good. Twice. The stimpaks sent his head spinning as he felt his body desperately trying to put him back together again. 

‘Did you hear what he said?’ Hancock muttered.

‘Shit, I…’ Tristan panted, shaking his head, unable to do much but try his best to breathe. 

‘We gotta go up to uh… To Shaun. Use his terminal to get the doors to the reactor open.’

Tristan closed his eyes hard. Not that. Anything but that. 

‘If… that’s how it has to be,’ he whispered, allowing Hancock to balance him up, testing his legs, realizing they _did_ hold his weight. He could hear the shooting outside the room. It was picking up. 

Hancock put his hand against Tristan’s cheek, cradling his jaw, making him look at him. 

‘I’m here,’ he said softly. Tristan instantly looked away, nodding quietly, drew a sharp inhale and straightened up.

‘Let’s just get this shit over with,’ he muttered, jogging towards the large hall of the Institute, Hancock right behind him. 

Both Des and Deacon had to practically shove him away from the fighting. In the short amount of time he and Hancock darted along the increasingly massacred greenery, white metal, and transparent shapes of Coursers, Tristan saw at least five Railroad agents he was on a first-name basis with get torn into pieces. It was Des’ sharp yell about how none of this was going to matter if Tristan did not get to that damned reactor _now_ that made him ignore it all and quickly make for the stairs. For what felt like the millionth time in his life, he was happy he was not in a commanding position in a situation like this. Every hurt, every tragedy of lost life, seemed like a small isolated scene of misery to him; something that needed attention. This was not the place for it. He hated it. 

The noise of gunfire, screaming, and other less familiar noises dulled behind him and Hancock as their feet clattered along the disinfection-pale stairs up to Shaun’s office. For every step, dissociation hit Tristan harder. He just had to live with it now, there was absolutely no place at all to address it or stave it off. Then again, perhaps this one time, it was going to help. He was practically seeing himself from the other side of the room as he stepped into the fluorescent shine of the top floor. 

Tristan frowned as he met Shaun’s angry gaze. The old man was tucked into a strange-looking bed. Tristan couldn’t help but immediately think it could double as a coffin, seeing as it had a lid and everything. Death’s door. _He’s already dead_. But unfortunately, still animated. 

‘You had me fooled. I really believed you were on our side.’

Tristan stopped. The acute detachment had vanished. It was like a lingering tingling in his fingers and toes, but he was absolutely here, definitely looking at this old man who was once his small child. He _felt_. A dull, heavy sadness like a drone underneath everything else. A world-encompassing regret about everything turning out the way it had. But his eyes were dry, his voice steady.

‘There’s no going back, Shaun. The Institute has to be stopped.’

‘And you’ve decided this for yourself? Or has it been fed to you by the corrupt societies above ground?’ It was a tone Tristan had only ever heard seep through once before, when Shaun was looking out over the wasteland of the Commonwealth, that one time he stepped outside of the Institute. But it was different now. Shaun was furious, and only the feebleness of his dying body stopped him from pouncing at Tristan, it seemed. As it were, he was barely moving in his coffin-bed, his skin gray and eye-sockets dark. 

‘Isn’t it enough that I lay here, dying… Now you plan on – what? –destroying everything?’ He sounded more exasperated that angry now, pausing, shaking his head. ‘Tell me, then. Under what _righteous_ pretense have you justified this atrocity?’

Tristan hadn’t thought about it, but Hancock had remained just behind the wall leading into the room up until now. Shaun’s eyes widened in a mix of shock and disgust as the ghoul now confidently strode up next to Tristan, messy-looking shotgun resting against his shoulder. The ghoul’s hand found Tristan’s, who squeezed it hard, trying to spread any of the warmth going through him at the ghoul’s silent introduction of himself. Shaun was speechless, going from trying to make sense of Hancock’s face, to the tightly grasped hands between him and Tristan. As so often before, Hancock made Tristan remember the stakes, the potency of drama, the importance of passion. 

‘The Commonwealth deserves to determine its own fate,’ he said calmly, making Shaun’s eyes snap back to him, still wide and wild. 

‘I can’t believe I thought… the corruption had escaped you,’ the old man stammered, his voice only a whisper now, eyes again darting from Tristan to Hancock. 

Tristan could’ve bashed his face in at that second before sense settled a little in him. But for that one breath of time, every memory of accusation about his choice of living openly as he was, every disgusted whisper, every dirty look, every punch to the gut – they all came rushing through him. He felt Hancock’s squeeze on his hand, saw the tiny turn of his head towards him.

‘It hurts me,’ Tristan said, looking straight at Shaun, shocked at his voice still being steady, ‘That you will die not understanding what it is to love someone. I have done many things I regret, but that… That will be a sorrow I carry with me to my grave.’

Shaun fell silent. Tristan couldn’t gauge what was going on behind his hollow, tired eyes. Judging by the way Shaun glared at Hancock still, his feelings towards the ghoul had not changed. 

‘So, is that why you’re here? To gloat?’ he said, finally, looking back to Tristan, the glare now directed at him.

An exasperated exhale shot out of Tristan. This wasn’t working. ‘If you help me, fewer people will die. Will you?’

Shaun’s gray eyebrows shot up in a momentary face of disbelief before sinking back over his eyes. ‘Why would I _ever_ consider helping you?’

‘There are people here fleeing. Some of them oppose you, yes, but most are just scared, trying to get out of here. And they are ending up in a lot of crosshairs right now. We can try and minimize the casualties in all this. You want your people to survive, don’t you?’

Shaun closed his eyes. He said nothing. Tristan watched him, an uncomfortable stab finding his heart as he saw how alike the profile of Shaun’s nose was to Nora’s.

‘Very well,’ Shaun said finally, quietly, all anger gone from his voice. ‘The terminal behind me… Enter access code 9003. That will disable some of the synths. Now go. Just… Just leave me.’

Tristan looked at him. Shaun was staring down into the crisp white sheet around his body. His cerements. 

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to be your dad, Shaun.’

The old man simply wrinkled his nose at Tristan’s words, stubbornly turning his face towards the large window showing the violence going on in the rest of the building.

‘It’s too late to be sorry,’ he whispered.

//

‘Please, dad, don’t leave me here! I want to go with you!’

Tristan froze. It felt like someone has speared him through the spine. He had heard that voice before. When he first came to the Institute. When he saw the little boy that was Shaun but wasn’t. Stiffly, he turned around. The remaining railroad-agents were coming towards the teleportation-room in small groups, one more hurt than the next. Tom was frantically hammering away at the last things needed at the terminal in front of Tristan. Next to the terminal was a little boy in a white boiler suit, looking exactly like the little boy Tristan had seen that day. The little boy that was Shaun but wasn’t. This time, looking at him, Tristan didn’t feel any of the familiarity at all. He saw a child, but it wasn’t even a little bit his.

‘What,’ he heard himself whisper under his breath as the boy walked towards him. He didn’t mean to recoil, but he did. The boy seemed unfazed. 

‘I promise I won’t be too much trouble. I’ll stay out of your way and you won’t even have to take care of me.’

_Whoever programmed this thing doesn’t know anything about children_. Then he realized who must have programmed it and realized how right he was. He felt his jaw tense. He hunched down in front of the boy, seeing that no more people from the Railroad were coming, and no more fleeing synths either.

‘Look, kid. I’m leaving. If you want to come along then follow me, okay?’

The boy nodded, moving to stand to the side as Tristan motioned him to do so. He shoved that whole situation to the back of his head somewhere, turning to Tom instead. 

‘You sure you know what you’re doing? This thing isn’t going to zap me into space or vaporize me or anything, is it?’ He didn’t know where his ability to be flippant really came from at this point; maybe he was finally losing it. But he could feel that he was smiling a little as he addressed Tom.

‘This baby is bona fide Institute tech. Mind-blowing shit. It’s going to work. It’s all set to take you and Des to the detonation site, then I’ll rig it to send me and the kid here back to HQ right after. We’ll look after him,’ he said, shooting the young boy a glance before continuing, but more to himself, ‘Get him some better clothes too. Yikes.’

Then Tom stood up from his hunching over the terminal, flashing Des, Hancock, and Tristan a wide smile. ‘Let’s get you the hell outta here.’


	20. Beyond the Grave

The view of the Commonwealth was, despite everything, absolutely breathtaking. An orange-magenta sunset colored the ruin of a civilization, bringing a soft shine to the skeleton city below. And now, they would change the skyline forever, again.

Stumbling out of a teleportation was something Tristan hoped he would never have to get used to; if this were the last time he did it, that would be a wish come true. The silence up here was poignant, dissonant with the chaos of escaping the Institute. Safe distance. A safe distance to set off an enormous bomb. What an end to all this.

Without a word, Des motioned towards a comically large, red-buttoned device on top of an oil barrel. Z1-14 was here as well, as were a few stragglers from the Railroad, wanting to see this moment for themselves, Tristan guessed. Their fight had been going on for a lot longer than his had, even though it admittedly felt like forever for him as well. And, also admittedly, his fight had looked a whole lot different than theirs. 

After a quick look at Hancock, which was met with a supportive, stoic nod, Tristan moved up to the detonator. It was always very strange to stand so close to change, and knowing it is so. He couldn’t stop his past leaking through, reminding him of moments like this, even if he hadn’t exactly blown a whole underground structure to bits before. But moments, big and small, that you just knew would change your world forever.

Like telling his parents no when they insisted he go out with Amelia, the neighbor girl, and knowing they knew why he said that. Like taking back his insistence on joining the armed forces as an actual armed soldier, going back to what he knew – nursing – unable to see it as anything but a defeat. Telling everyone it wasn’t because Voss died; knowing that it was. Like the slow realization that Shaun… was Shaun. 

He looked up once again, noticing that no one seemed to fault him for simply staring at the red button between him and the destruction of the Institute. No one could argue the monumental impact of this moment. But he was looking for Hancock’s eyes. He found them a lot closer to him than he would’ve expected. The ghoul had moved up to him, perhaps a little worried something worse than just normal anxiety was stopping Tristan. 

Like agreeing to work for that heart-stopping ghoul in Goodneighbor, knowing he never would want to leave his side if he was ever allowed to be at it. 

He smiled at Hancock who, a little surprised it seemed, smiled back. 

‘Thank you,’ Tristan said softly and before the confused frown on Hancock’s face could turn into a voiced reply, Tristan pushed the button.

//

He knew he had to go back to the Railroad. That… child synth was there, and though he had no intention of taking care of him, he also had no intention of fleeing from his problems anymore. And he did have a plan. 

Tristan and Hancock were sitting by one of the rivers, night sky dark above them, a smell of fire and metal hanging heavy in the sky. Hancock was slowly enjoying a bottle of Gwinnett pale ale. Tristan shared in a similar ‘saved for a more celebratory time’ – a Nuka-Cola Quantum. The glow of it almost blinded him in the dark.

It was probably unhealthy to be outside even remotely close to where the impact had been. Tristan scoffed at the thought. _Healthy._ He realized he expected Hancock to respond to his scoff in some way when the ghoul didn’t. 

Tristan looked over to him where he sat, boots dangling over the side of the edge they were sitting on. He was obviously deep in thought, judging by the frown. His tricorn hat lay behind him on the ground, and his lanky blonde, straight hair was behind his mess of a radiation-scarred ear. 

‘You okay?’ Tristan always felt a bit weird asking that, seeing what state the world was in. Then again, this was, after all, all Hancock knew. 

The ghoul started at Tristan’s question, and it was definitely genuine – he looked very caught. 

‘Oh, yeah,’ he scoffed, but the frown didn’t go away. ‘Better than that. I’m just… I need you to hear something, I think.’ 

‘Anything.’ 

The ghoul took a deep breath, scowling at himself at it, shaking his head a little before continuing. 

‘It’s just… being out here with you. It’s made me realize…’ He made a gesture as if he wanted to start over. 

‘Most of my life to this point, I’ve been running out on the good things I got. I skipped out on my family, my life in Diamond City. Took up with you just to get out of Goodneighbor. Hell, running from myself is what turned me into… into a damn ghoul.’

Hancock motioned towards himself, not looking, eyes locked out into the dark waters in front of him. Tristan was looking at his profile, and even though it was dark, and Hancock was a little turned away, Tristan could see a glitter in the ghoul’s eye, a softening of his rough features. 

The ghoul straightened a little with a small smile. He glanced at Tristan. 

‘Being here with you, for the first time in my life, things have just felt… right. Running, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I mean, I left Goodneighbor thinking I was gonna just get to sharpen up the ol’ killer instinct next to a gorgeous man…’ He smiled, shrugging, and turned towards Tristan more decisively. 

‘But whether it’s fate, or destiny, or just god damn coincidence, I ended up with someone like you.’

Tristan felt his heart pick up the pace as Hancock looked into his eyes. He wondered if he would ever not have such a head-spinning reaction to the ghoul looking at him like that. He sincerely doubted it. Thankfully, Tristan told himself, Hancock looked away again, out over the waters. 

‘I turned one of the nastiest settlements in the Commonwealth into a refuge for the lost. I thought I’d done something I could hang my hat on.’ Hancock spoke more rapidly now, lighter, smiling wider.

‘You’ve made me realize just how small time I’d been thinking. And, you know. Maybe all that running, from my life, from myself… Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all, if it led me here.’

He fell silent and Tristan didn’t really know if that was because he wanted a reply. If he did, it was unfortunate, because Tristan didn’t really know what to say; he was overcome with a want to hug Hancock, but that might be interrupting – he didn’t seem quite done yet. As a sort of half-way-there, Tristan put his hand over Hancock’s, which was resting on the ground. As soon as Tristan put it there, Hancock turned his palm-up and entwined his fingers with Tristan’s. 

‘You know I didn’t always look this good,’ Hancock continued, and he could probably tell Tristan almost managed to get a complaint about the sarcastic comment in, because he rapidly went on. ‘The drug that did this to me, that made me a ghoul, I knew what it was going to do.’

Tristan closed his half-open mouth. The light tone of the first half of what Hancock had said had died away completely. 

‘I just couldn’t stand looking at the bastard I saw in the mirror anymore. The _coward_ who’d let all those ghouls from Diamond City die. Who was too scared to protect his fellow drifters from Vic and his boys. If I took it, I’d never have to look at him again. I could put all that behind me. I’d be free. Didn’t seem like a choice at all.’

Hancock paused. His voice had turned into a soft, quiet growl; the whisper his vocal cords allowed. 

‘Turns out it was just me running from something else in my life.’ It was even quieter. 

Tristan wondered if Hancock had seen what he had seen – that the old Hancock shone through in flickers; that the radiation scars changed, but didn’t hide. He frowned at himself. Of course he saw; he must see it so much more than Tristan did. He probably saw it all the time. Doing that – turning yourself knowingly into a ghoul – and then seeing it didn’t work at all. 

He squeezed Hancock’s hand, hard, trying to signal at least half of the emotion he was feeling. A soft, grateful squeeze came back, before a sharp, loud sniffle and an equally loud clearing of a throat.

‘Lemme get to the point,’ Hancock said louder than before. He picked up his and Tristan’s hands, and put them down against his own thigh, stroking Tristan’s hand with his thumb. 

‘Throwing in with you has been the best decision I’ve ever made. It’s like I found a part of myself I never realized I was missing.’ A small mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘Which, you should probably know, happens sometimes when you’re a ghoul.’

A surprised laugh fell out of Tristan’s mouth. 

‘If I hadn’t taken up with you,’ Hancock continued, ‘I’d probably be in a gutter somewhere, getting gnawed on by radroaches.’

‘Well,’ Tristan said, realizing his voice was a little thick. ‘That’s still not the most unlikely scenario, I’m warning you. It’s just, I’ll be right there next to you being gnawed on.’

Hancock chuckled. It sounded tired, but happy; relieved. Tristan reached out to grab his scarred cheek, bringing them face to face, before leaning in to kiss the ghoul. 

It was different. In a very good way. _It’s like I found a part of myself I never realized I was missing._

‘I love you, John.’

Hancock’s black eyes went wide and there he was, complete, and clear, the mask of the monster gone; just a ghoul looking back in stark, honest surprise. Tristan would have been lying if he didn’t admit to being scared. That might have been overstepping grossly. _Shit_. It had felt right, but what the hell did he know? 

Then, Hancock smiled, a hint of disbelief in it, seemingly at himself. 

‘Wouldn’t have expected that kind of lapse in judgment from you.’ He leaned back into Tristan, remnants of lips brushing against the black haired man’s. His voice was deeper as he continued. ‘But I guess that works out for me then, doesn’t it?’ 

The kiss was harsh, but still different from how that harshness had been before this moment. Tristan could tell that Hancock kept checking in, not only with him, but with himself as well. What he also noticed was that he could do the same thing himself, and he kept looking for that panic he knew should be coming right about now. It didn’t. 

Then, as Hancock was on top of him, pinning his wrists to the very uncomfortable, broken asphalt underneath, he also realized that they were out in the open. In the _very_ open. He was just about to suggest finding at least a bit of shelter, when Hancock abruptly sat up again, grinning down at Tristan’s flustered, half-lidded eyes. 

Then, the ghoul quickly jumped to his feet, making it very obvious how quickly Tristan’s body had responded to Hancock’s closeness. 

‘Come on, love,’ he said, offering Tristan his hand to stand up. ‘Let’s get this freakshow on the road.’

//

_I have no reason to believe you’ll honor the request I’m about to make, but I feel compelled to try anyway. _

_This synth, this… boy. He deserves more._

_He has been reprogrammed to believe he is your son. It is my hope that you will take him with you._

_I would ask only that you give him a chance. A chance to be part of whatever future awaits in the Commonwealth._

The holotape clicked to an end. Tristan saw his knuckles had whitened around the back of the chair he was grabbing. First, it was just hearing Shaun’s voice again, knowing it came from beyond death, knowing he hadn’t made it. 

Then, it was the fucking _audacity_ of it all. Programmed him. _To think he is my son_. Tristan didn’t know if it was irony or poetic justice, or just something else he deserved according to this universe’s sick sense of humor. 

He had no intention to keep him. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve a good life, it was that he did. And Tristan had no intention of settling for a life that was good, not for a young boy. He knew who might though. 

Tristan had asked Hancock to give him some room while he listened to the holotape, and the ghoul had awkwardly offered to show the enthusiastic little boy how to hammer armor plates. Everything had unraveled fast as they came back to HQ – the brief relief of finally having finished the Institute was indeed that: brief.

They had come back to a morose, subdued atmosphere, to the remains of a vigil for Patriot – the agent in the Institute. He had committed suicide after realizing what had happened, what he had been an accomplice to. 

‘Patriot didn’t make it out of the Institute,’ Des had said sternly, curtly, while Tristan had been unable to look away from Patriot’s body. ‘He died during the evacuation and couldn’t be brought back out. Are we clear?’

Tristan had protested. It hadn’t changed anything. 

‘It was a tragic accident,’ Des had concluded, not convincing anyone. 

And then, this little synth boy had given him this holotape. This holotape of Shaun’s voice. A wave of nausea hit him. The last hours had been a little too intense for his tastes, and that was saying a lot, he realized. With a defeated sigh, he let go of the chair slowly giving way completely under his hand, and walked back out into the catacombs. 

Hancock had apparently abandoned his previous plan, and had instead dug out one of Tristan’s comics, and given it to the boy. The child was sitting, feet dangling off a chair, nose buried deep in the comic. Tristan moved up to the ghoul, speaking quietly so the synth wouldn’t hear them. 

‘We need to head back to Sanctuary first, and then I’m thinking Diamond City. You know. Let people know what happened. I’m guessing they’re wondering about the big boom and all that.’

‘And the kid?’ Hancock said, badly hiding his confusion over Tristan not mentioning him. 

‘I’ve got a plan. And I’m thinking…’ He looked around him at the damp, low ceiling and broken, gunfire-brittle supports. ‘Thinking we’re never coming back here, right?’

Hancock gave him a soft smile. ‘Think that’s a good idea. Lead the way.’

Tristan nodded, placing his hand on the scrawny little kids’ shoulder, stopping an urge to instantly pull it back. ‘You up for a bit of a hike, kid? Ready to see a bit more of the Commonwealth?’ He tried to ignore how hollow his enthusiasm sounded. 

Green eyes – Nora’s eyes – widening, and a smile overtaking the kid’s entire face, he jumped to his feet. ‘Really, dad?’

‘Don’t–’ Tristan winced. ‘Let’s go.’

//

The programming was solid, or at least obnoxious. The number of times Tristan had heard “dad” now and hating it more every time it happened was absurd. He couldn’t put into words, or gestures, or looks, how much he appreciated Hancock’s seemingly indefatigable attempts at drawing the little boy’s attention away from Tristan. But it was very, very welcome. 

The sun had almost completely set again when they finally crested the hill to Red Rocket. A happy, loud bark met them, and Tristan almost fell over as Dogmeat surged towards him and jumped up to lick his face, whining in excitement. Tristan buried his face in the dog’s thick, admittedly foul-smelling fur, laughing tiredly. The walk up here had been uneventful but had felt very long. 

‘This is Dogmeat, little guy,’ Tristan said. The large German Shepherd sat back on his haunches, tilting his head to the side as the little boy first froze in terror, only to quickly warm up to the large animal, holding his hand out. Dogmeat carefully licked it, causing the child to laugh and dare to pat him. The fear seemed instantly chased off and Dogmeat started to run ahead of them, already mostly focused on the child in his way forward now. 

Hancock and Tristan fell back a bit, able to talk outside of the child’s hearing range for the first time since they left the HQ. 

‘I’m thinking, and, well really, really hoping now, that Cait and MacCready will take him in,’ Tristan said, knowing full well it was a big ask, and simultaneously one that would be hard for the couple to turn down, wanting the child in their care or not. 

Hancock nodded. ‘Yeah, I figured.’

Tristan bit his lower lip. ‘Shit… This is a really bad idea, isn’t it? I just... I can’t… I can’t, Hancock.’

‘Hey now, what? No,’ Hancock said, and it sounded genuine enough to Tristan. ‘I think it’s the best solution to this whole fucked up situation. I mean, what would be the alternative? Have him come with _us_?’ He scoffed. 

Tristan exhaled. ‘Yeah… No, those were my thoughts as well. Also, he’s not… He’s just–’

‘He’s not your kid.’

‘He’s not my kid.’ It was just a whisper. He reached out to grab Hancock’s hand. The ghoul took it, giving it a squeeze.

‘Thanks,’ Tristan added. 

Small fires were burning everywhere, and the hanging oil lanterns lining the broken street looked more homely than Tristan had thought Sanctuary looking for a long time. They could see Cait and MacCready, Mama Murphy and Preston, and some of Preston’s new and old people in the Minutemen, all sitting around an assortment of pushed-together tables on one of the old house-foundations. Surprisingly colorful lanterns stood on the ground, and a smell of grilled meat wafted past. Laughter in the night air. 

The child and Dogmeat where already at the corner of the square old house foundation, Dogmeat’s tail wagging happily, the whole body language of the dog trying to get the child to come closer to the table. The boy had stopped at the edge, looking at the now silent, curious crowd, and back at the approaching Tristan and Hancock. 

As Tristan reached the child, he sat down to face him, after telling Hancock to get Cait and MacCready to come talk to him. 

‘Hey, so, these are all very good people, and they’ll be very happy to meet you. See the lady over there?’ He pointed towards Mama Murphy, who had obviously at least grasped that the little boy was some sort of relation to Tristan and smiled kindly at the little boy as he looked over. 

‘You go talk to her, and I’m sure she’ll give you some food.’ At the mention of food, the child’s mouth dropped open and he darted away without a word towards Mama Murphy in her chair. 

Standing up, Tristan was face to face with Cait. 

‘So?’ she said quietly, face blank. 

‘The Institute is gone. I bet you heard the, uh….’

‘The very loud explosion? Yep, no, we heard that.’ It was MacCready’s hallmark half-derisive voice. But then, he gave Tristan a small smile, only to grab his hand and pull him in for a bear hug. The young man had most certainly beefed up from all this manual labor it seemed. Tristan lost his breath a little as the strong arms enveloped him. 

Cait followed suit as MacCready let go, Tristan quickly feeling like a giant, as he always did hugging Cait. It was a very abrupt change from the scrawny little body he had felt like in MacCready’s grasp.

‘That’s bloody incredible,’ Cait said in the hug, quickly moving to hug Hancock as well as soon as she was done with Tristan. The ghoul warmly chuckled into her hair.

The four of them simply looked at each other for a while, having to take a moment to realize that they all made it. A bubbling laughter from the little boy they had brought quickly pulled at everyone’s attention, however. Tristan motioned for Cait and MacCready to move a little further away from the convivial dinner. 

‘This is… Well, I’m honestly not sure what to call any of this,’ Tristan started, and then continued to tell, as well as he could, often assisted by Hancock, about what had happened with the Institute. He left out a lot of detail with Shaun, but ending the story on the subject of the little boy with the same name, now stuffing his face with radroach meat in Mama Murphy’s lap. 

‘I can’t… Bring him along.’ It sounded so incredibly insufficient. It wasn’t just the life he led, it was _everything_.

‘So leave him with us, yeah?’ Cait said matter-of-factly, shrugging. ‘I know shit about parenting, but my man here can teach me I’m sure.’ She nudged MacCready in the rib. The mercenary chuckled, and instantly looked back at the little boy. Tristan had noticed that he had done so several times during Tristan’s retelling of their recent adventures, and it was always with a small, warm, smile. 

‘I’m…’ MacCready started, clearing his throat. ‘I’m looking to get Duncan here as well. He could… He could really do with a big brother.’

Tristan felt a pang in his stomach. It sounded way too good to be allowed to be true in this world. He had to wait for a while before he could continue, afraid he’d just end up bawling all over the place otherwise. MacCready looked at him with increased worry. 

‘Unless that’s… Shit, I’m sorry, is that not–’

‘It’s perfect, MacCready.’ Tristan said, holding up his hands in apology. ‘I just… couldn’t believe it there, for a while.’ He smiled, placing a hand on the mercenary’s shoulder. ‘That’s amazing news about Duncan.’

MacCready gave him a much wider smile than he usually did. ‘Just don’t forget about us up here, you hear?’ He said, shooting both Tristan and Hancock a very poor impression of a reprimanding eye. 

‘That’s not a joke,’ Cait added, a lot more successful in her sharp tone. Then she, too smiled. ‘What a fucking ride, eh, Tristan?’ She said, laughing, giving him another hug, before patting his cheek and moving to introduce herself to Shaun. 

Tristan and Hancock sat down at the table for a while, telling the tale again, with even less hard-to-talk-about details this time. The night grew damp and dark, the fires died down, people had to turn in for the night. As Tristan stood up, feeling every muscle in his body telling him not to, he saw that Shaun had fallen asleep in MacCready’s lap, and that Dogmeat had coiled up at the mercenary’s feet. 

It seemed almost like a dream. No, it actually seemed entirely like a dream. But he wouldn’t run from it this time. He moved over to MacCready, and sat down next to him, nudging the young boy in his lap carefully. Slowly, he blinked awake. 

‘Oh, hey, dad,’ he said quietly, ending on a very big yawn. 

Tristan smiled, and for the first time it felt okay, and as if he meant it, while looking at this little boy. 

‘Hey, little guy. So, have Cait and MacCready told you about how things are going to go from now on?’

Shaun nodded. ‘Cait said I would live with them now. She said she’d let me help her pick tatoes tomorrow!’ It was as if he had forgotten, and now remembered, and it was the best thing that could happen to a human being. MacCready softly chuckled behind him, stroking his head. Shaun smiled. 

‘That’s right. Cait and MacCready are going to be your real parents now–’

‘But you’re my dad.’

Tristan tried not to think about how that was just programming trying to convince the boy. What did he know about Institute synths? The child believed he was a human, and if that were true, he would have to evolve like everyone else. 

‘You can have more than one dad, Shaun.’

‘You can?’

‘Yes. And I will always be your dad, okay? But I can’t be around too much. Now, I want you to know that that’s not because you don’t deserve people to be around, or that people don’t want you. It’s important that you remember that, okay?’

The boy nodded carefully, not fully understanding. Tristan hoped the words would still be there every time his absence would make the boy wonder. It didn’t need to be true, it needed to not become a festering hollowness inside this young child. 

‘So, MacCready’s your dad as well now, and Cait’s your mum, and everyone here will be your extra parents, and friends, when you need them.’

‘What’s Hancock?’ Shaun looked up at the ghoul in the darkness. Tristan heard the ghoul chuckle. It wasn’t entirely friendly. 

‘Think of me as the guy who’ll shoot anyone who messes with ya, kid.’

Shaun didn’t answer, but Tristan hoped that too was a thing that would stick. This world needed that sentiment as well. And, fucking hell, if he hadn’t enjoyed hearing Hancock say that. He stood up. 

The boy flew from MacCready’s lap, wrapping his little arms around Tristan’s legs. He couldn’t say he enjoyed the sensation, but he let it happen, and patted the boy’s black hair. _His_ hair. He swallowed. 

‘I’ll come back and visit soon, Shaun.’

‘Promise.’

He sighed through his nose, carefully dislodging the wiry little child from himself, holding him out at arm’s length. 

‘I promise, Shaun.’

The boy seemed content, smiling and nodding at Tristan, and then taking MacCready’s stretched out hand to follow him back to his and Cait’s house. The mercenary nodded once to Tristan, who nodded back. A quick flash of the two of them kissing in that weird, seemingly very distant past, brushed through Tristan’s mind, and he couldn’t help laughing a little as MacCready and Shaun walked off into the night. 

He turned around, only seeing Hancock’s outline in the darkness. They seemed to be alone, everyone calling Sanctuary a home having slinked off for the night. Tristan moved up close to the ghoul, putting his arms around his back and leaned in under the tricorn hat, kissing him on his lips. The kiss he got back was kind, warm, a little frustrated. 

‘Just Diamond City,’ Tristan murmured against Hancock’s lips. ‘Then a fucking vacation.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving up on the last chapter folks :ooooo
> 
> also can i please never have to write children again thanks C':


	21. Sunshine

Diamond City had become familiar, in the same way that Tristan’s cousins on his mother’s side had been familiar. Known in name and nature; known well enough to know you were not welcome there, well enough to know you didn’t want to _be_ welcome there. 

That said, nighttime in Diamond City was also familiar in a different way. An echo of the dead reality Tristan had frozen two hundred years ago. Chattering around street food vendors, warm lights in the night gloom, the shadow of clandestine meetings at the mouths of alleys. It was a city, and a city remained strangely the same, apocalypse or not.

‘You know, this is another place I won’t hate never coming back to,’ Tristan muttered to Hancock as they crested the stairs, looking out over Diamond City’s night life. 

Hancock gave a content grunt back, but Tristan saw the ghoul’s eyes narrow as he looked down towards the old baseball court. Tristan followed to where he was looking. Something was not as calm as the rest. 

By the hilariously unceremoniously painted sign showing the way to the mayor’s office sat Danny, the guard who had refused Tristan and Piper entry that bright morning so long ago. His face was paler than usual, and he gripped his stomach, hand and repurposed baseball-armor stained with blood. He had been shot, and he was in a lot of pain. 

‘You gotta listen,’ Tristan and Hancock heard Danny say as they jogged down the stairs. Danny was talking to the resident ‘priest’ Clements, who was squatting in front of Danny, unhelpfully trying to also hold his stomach wound. 

‘Mayor McDonough. I saw him with one of those Institute synths.’ Tristan saw, in his periphery, how Hancock tensed next to him at the words.

‘Piper was right,’ Danny continued through clenched teeth. ‘He’s one of them.’

Tristan threw Hancock a look. The ghoul wasn’t looking back, just kept staring hard, jaw clenched, at Danny. 

A small group of Diamond City residents had gathered around Danny and Clements, and Danny’s words sent all their hands fretting about. 

‘McDonough’s a synth!’ one of them exclaimed in a poorly volumed whisper. ‘Oh god, what do we do now?’

‘You can stop standing around!’ Clements said, in a tone very different from his usual soft-spoken one. ‘Someone get the doctor!’

Tristan and Hancock moved closer, as the residents scrambled in very unclear directions. Tristan doubted that any of them were going to actually heed the priest’s words – they seemed more inclined to spread the word that their mayor was a synth. 

Danny and Clemens looked up at the two approaching men, and both looked grateful – Clements capable of looking more so than Danny – as Tristan sat down next to the injured guard, looking for a place to inject a Stimpak. 

As the group of residents had dispersed, one was still standing there. Tristan hadn’t noticed until now, but it was Piper. As their eyes met, they gave each other a small smile and a nod. It had been a while. Piper looked back down at Danny, who closed his eyes and sighed as the Stimpak did its job, at least a little bit. 

‘Don’t worry, Danny. You’re gonna be alright.’ Piper sounded as if she said it more to herself than to Danny. 

After a few increasingly calming breaths, Danny opened his eyes, giving Tristan a strained smile. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, still careful to breathe too deeply. ‘I feel better. If you don’t mind, I’m… I’m just gonna stay here for a bit.’ He leaned back against the sign behind him again, closing his eyes, exhaling slowly, painfully, through his nose. Tristan gave him a soft pat on his arm and stood up. Clements followed suit, nodding gratefully at Tristan. 

‘Thank you. God willing, he’ll make a full recovery,’ he said, though he still looked concerned. 

‘No time to lose, Tristan.’ It was Piper’s voice. She nodded at him and started moving towards the elevator up to the office, naturally expecting Tristan to follow.

Hancock had stood behind Tristan all this time, not saying anything. Now, Tristan turned to him, and the ghoul quickly looked away, shaking his head a little, chewing at the inside of his lower lip. 

‘Are y–’

‘We’re going to go see what the fuck this is about,’ Hancock interrupted, his voice so quiet only Tristan could hear him. There was often, virtually always, an edge to everything Hancock said. This edge was different. 

Tristan swallowed, gave Hancock one confirmative nod, and moved to join Piper with Hancock close behind. 

The elevator ride seemed longer than usual. As the machine came to a noisy stop, Piper ran out of it, pipe pistol drawn and aimed at everyone standing around, darting to find the accused. 

Only a few Diamond City guards were standing outside the metal door leading in to where McDonough’s office was. One of them was inefficiently pulling at the door, and they could hear muffled voices coming from behind it – one high pitched and scared. 

Piper, having realized she didn’t want to shoot anyone here, quickly moved to Geneva’s – the receptionist’s – desk. The wiry blonde was nowhere to be seen, and Tristan had an idea whose voice they were hearing through the door. Piper quickly found what she was looking for – a keyring. Shoving the guards away – and they simply moving, floored by the effectiveness of the reporter – she quickly got the door open. 

Twitchingly, the mayor of Diamond City flicked his gun away from Geneva, who was on the floor on her knees, hands behind her head, to point at Piper and Tristan. 

‘Help me! He’s crazy!’ Geneva wailed, new energy rushing over her at the sight of possible saviors. Her voice was hoarse and tear-edged, coming from a swollen throat. 

‘I’m not going to be discarded and tossed to the wolves. I’m the mayor goddamnit!’ 

Tristan froze in the small forward movement he had been up to. The mayor had, up until now, came off as a gullible, weak, slimy bastard. And now, there was an eerily familiar _edge_ to his words. Tristan exhaled sharply through his nose. He remembered everything Hancock had told him about what McDonough had done to the ghouls of Diamond City. It felt simple enough now when he saw this man in the flesh again. Synth or not, Tristan _hated_ him. But that didn’t mean he was willing to see innocents hurt.

‘Mayor McDonough.’ The large man’s beady eyes darted to Tristan as he spoke, gun quick to follow. Tristan held up his hands, even though he did have his 10mm pistol in one of them. At least he wasn’t aiming it at McDonough. That was going to be the extent of his charity. 

‘I can help you, but not when you’re holding a hostage. Let her go.’ He was looking as steadily as he could at the mayor, saw how fragile his resolve was. He heard the man swallow all the way across the room. 

‘All… all right,’ McDonough said, voice unsteady. ‘She can– she can go.’

Geneva didn’t wait a second; she stumbled to her feet, crying, and threw herself out of the room. 

‘Now,’ McDonough said, voice more stressed, possibly realizing that there was extremely little saving him from a bullet to the head now. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. I’m walking out of this city. Unharmed. With my dignity intact.’

‘Not happening.’ It was Hancock’s growl, sending a chill down Tristan’s entire spine. Suddenly, the ghoul was at his side, shotgun aiming everywhere but in a friendly direction. 

‘I’m either walking out of this city a free man, or I’m killing as many of you… disgusting, filthy savages as I can!’ McDonough shouted, calm completely gone now.

Tristan knew that was going to be it, and was shocked to see Hancock didn’t immediately move. He heard the metal responding to Hancock’s tightening grip around the shotgun, heard the forcedly steady, heavy breathing of the ghoul next to him. Tristan wanted Hancock to do whatever he wished, but he could at least try and get information out of the mayor before the inevitable happened. 

‘What are you going to do then?’ Tristan said across the room, hoping Hancock could hear the despise in his voice. Hearing how he sounded himself, he doubted anyone missed it. Save perhaps McDonough; the man seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. His gun was hanging towards the floor in his grip, and sweat stains came all the way through his beige suit. 

‘I, I, I can’t go back to the Institute. I can’t stay here. But I’m a man of… I’ll make my way. Just let me go. Hasn’t there been enough bloodshe–’

So, Tristan had been wrong – _that_ was it. With strong, steady strides, Hancock was over at McDonough, who was so shocked at the ghoul’s sudden approach, his gun fell to the floor, and eventually, he was sitting on the floor with the muzzle of Hancock’s shotgun hard against his larynx. Tristan instinctively took a few steps after Hancock but stopped breathlessly about two meters away from the two brothers. 

‘So, it’s true,’ Hancock growled. McDonough didn’t answer. Tristan imagined it was both the fact that there was a shotgun at his throat, and that Hancock was terrifying. 

‘They _did_ replace you,’ Hancock continued. ‘Tell me one thing then… Before or after you slaughtered everyone? Would you have done that anyway? It would be too easy to just blame them, wouldn’t it? You still would have.’ The shotgun went even further into the folds underneath McDonough’s chin. ‘You still fucking would have.’

Tristan could see McDonough’s eyes, could see how, despite the incredible fear he was in, realization seeped through. Programming remembering; predetermined emotions trying to cope. 

‘…John?’ A whisper, as good as any for last words. 

The discharge of the shotgun was so loud it sent Tristan’s ears ringing instantly. He tried not to look at the remains, tried to look away, tried to follow Hancock’s whirl of a flight out of the office. His legs shook, he stumbled away from Piper’s attempt at an embrace. He could see the triumph on her face, vaguely remembered that he and Hancock had come here to tell her the Institute was gone. She would know. People would know. It wasn’t important anymore. 

Following the trail of a red coat like his life depended on it. 

//

Tristan chased him to the abandoned parking lot outside the stadium, a place that was now more of a car graveyard, and a popular lair for vicious wild dogs. The latter were nowhere to be seen now; perhaps they had finally learnt their lesson. 

Hancock’s running boots against the ground had stilled and just before Tristan was about to turn a corner of stacked car skeletons, he jumped as the very loud sound of two shotgun shots went off. They were followed by an almost as loud noise of metal meeting metal, first once, then twice, then repeatedly. 

Tristan rounded the corner carefully, only to see Hancock sink down against a notably buckled piece of car, throwing the shotgun in front of him. It skidded across the cracked pavement, stopping halfway under another rusted car chassis. The ghoul buried his face in his hands, nails digging into the lanky hair underneath the tricorn hat. 

He just watched him for a few seconds. Didn’t know what to say, still trying to cope with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, trying to get the image of McDonough’s face turning to paste out of his head; the synth components defiantly intact, falling to the floor next to him. Then, he simply walked over to the ghoul, placed his rifle on the ground, as well as his backpack, and sat down next to him, shoulders touching. 

The sat quiet for a long time and it was impossible for Tristan to hold his thoughts at bay through it. It felt as if he sat down for the first time in years. The first thing was just the emotional clash of having put down the Institute only to run into their legacy like this right after it. For how long would the remnants of them live on? Did synths age like people? Would they just keep on existing? Synths like Nick, would they live forever, as long as they updated their hardware? Would people get interested in synths and start another mission just like the Institute’s, or something like it, getting their head up their asses about technology again? It felt inevitable in a very exhausting way, and Tristan forced himself to not think more about that right now. 

Eventually, Hancock got his face out of his hands. He had been crying, silently, only the occasional sniffle coming through now and again. Now, he leaned his head back, closing his eyes, and sighed. 

‘Fuck,’ he muttered. 

‘Yeah,’ Tristan sighed back. Another thought had crept up. They hadn’t eaten since midday. It was probably midnight by now. He didn’t feel hungry at all, but he probably was. He knew Hancock’s metabolism was very different from his, but he often shared in meals anyway. 

‘We, or I, should probably eat,’ Tristan said. ‘And I feel as if I need to do something with my hands,’ he continued, quieter. It would’ve earned at least a smirk from Hancock at any other point, and that realization felt heavy.

‘A good plan,’ the ghoul simply said, not moving. 

‘I’ll go see what I can find,’ Tristan said, standing up, wanting to do _something_ to show he was there for whatever Hancock needed. It turned into a lingering hand on the ghoul’s arm. Tristan was unsure it brought the point across at all. He got a nod back. 

Remnants of other camps were everywhere among the rusty cars. Tristan soon came back, noisily rolling an oil drum in front of him. He put it upright in the little space where he and Hancock were, putting a metal net he had also found on top of it. 

‘Sorry about that,’ he said feebly, very thankful the sound he had produced had stopped. Hancock huffed softly, waving a little towards him. 

Thoughts swirling around his head aimlessly, Tristan managed to get a fire going in the drum, as well as an assortment of canned food sizzling on top of it. He always tried to not think about how canned goods were over two hundred years old. How he also was, technically. 

‘You have any siblings? Back then?’ Hancock said, interrupting an at least ten-minute-long silence. 

‘No,’ Tristan replied. ‘Think my parents were scared they’d get another failure.’ He stopped himself, feeling his own eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. Apparently, he was so tired, all his filters had fallen away. 

‘Shit, I–’ he started, unintentionally pressing a piece of cram down through the metal net. It quickly burned to a crisp in the fire. ‘Inappropriate. Weird. Shouldn’t have said that.’

‘They didn’t deserve you,’ Hancock simply said. It sounded so much like a threat Tristan was sure at least one of his parents was turning in a grave somewhere. 

‘McDonough didn’t deserve _you_.’ He didn’t know if that was the correct thing to say, but he felt exactly that, and he doubted anything was actually right. But it was the truest way he could put it. Having Hancock as family was having the fiercest man imaginable by your side. Betraying his trust… It was true. McDonough didn’t deserve to be hated by Hancock; it was too good for him. 

‘All these years… And I hated him for the wrong reason,’ Hancock said, seemingly sharing a similar train of association as Tristan, if probably a lot more self-deprecating. 

‘I don’t believe that. Like you said back there – we don’t know when this happened. Honestly, I’m not sure it matters. He turned into scum, one way or another.’

Hancock didn’t reply. He stood up, joining Tristan in standing by the fire. After a few moments, he moved even closer to the wiry black-haired man, snaked an arm around Tristan’s waist, and softly kissed his cheek with his thin remnants of lips. A shiver went through Tristan’s entire body, every hair standing on end. Confused, he felt as if he was going to cry for a second, at the happiness he felt at how right and completely free of hesitation Hancock’s actions were in nearing him. 

‘I know there’s this whole thing about revenge not helping,’ Hancock said, putting his head on Tristan’s shoulder, looking into the fire. ‘That ain’t true to me.’

//

Tristan woke up to a blinding sunlight. Everything hurt, and that probably had something to do with sleeping on the remains of the springs of the backseat in a car. But also, that he had slept like a dead person – it felt as if half his limbs had lost circulation. Just sitting up took a good fifteen minutes. He was sure it would feel fantastic to have slept like this further down the line today, but right now it was hell. 

They had managed to fit on the seat, both of them – finding a car with a backseat that tried to make a statement about late capitalism in how wide it was – on Hancock’s insistence. Not that Tristan had complained. Now, Hancock was nowhere to be seen, however. That didn’t feel right. 

Stiffly, Tristan crawled out of the car wreck into the bright light of the clear Commonwealth sky. The parking lot smelled like dog shit and warm metal – a combination that pre-apocalypse had been far less pleasant than it was now. It beat a lot of other smells going on in the world nowadays. Tristan had hoped he would find his ghoul companion sitting outside with a can of water, or at least parading the perimeter, stretching his legs – whatever. But a walk around the parking lot later, with the occasional call of Hancock’s name, proved that that was not the case. 

He couldn’t keep his heart still, it beat too fast already, and nothing worked to still his thoughts. 

‘Godamnit,’ he kept muttering to himself, not sure exactly _what_ he expected had happened; worst case scenario after worst case scenario kept running through his mind, battling the valiant attempt of reason trying to explain that the most logical outcome was that Hancock was just fine. Tristan managed to quickly silent his own logic with the fact that said logic originated in another reality than this one. 

His reputation, and the Diamond City guard’s thoughts on ghouls, made it, thankfully, easy to find out in which direction Hancock had set off in. Despite everything, the guards still couldn’t hold off their sneers and glares at him and his ghoul, it seemed. Tristan decided that some people were just lost. Whatever. _Where the hell are you?_

By the time Tristan reached the waterside, he was on the verge of tears. No amount of sleep could get him off the edge of his emotions, it seemed – that would take time. 

When he spotted what he had been looking for – a sitting figure in a soiled white shirt and blonde hair – he had to actually stop and get some of the tears out of his system before moving forward. 

He sat down next to the ghoul by the water. Hancock’s red coat and tricorn hat lay next to him, dust and bloodstains showing in full, laying there, spread out under the morning sun. 

‘I thought,’ Tristan started. ‘Shit, I don’t know _what_ I thought.’ It wasn’t possible to hide that it hadn’t exactly been a fun morning for Tristan, especially not to Hancock.

‘Sorry,’ the ghoul muttered. Tristan saw a small smile brush over his face. ‘Not my intention. I had to… think.’ The last word sounded like a compromise. ‘Guess neither of us is free from this scaring us, huh?’ He smiled a little longer this time, throwing a glance at the man next to him. 

‘Heh,’ Tristan let out. ‘Yeah.’ 

‘I can’t–’ Hancock said, stopping himself with a grunt. Then he sighed, shaking his head. Tristan saw his jaw tensing and relaxing a few times. 

‘I still don’t get why you wanna be with me, okay?’ he said. ‘And I thought, for a while there, that maybe it was still better if I just left. Leave you the chance of…’ He rolled his eyes a little, obviously at himself. 

‘Fuck it,’ he continued, turning to Tristan. ‘I’ve decided that I’ll just have to enjoy it while I can. And the only thing I need you to promise me is… You want me to leave, you tell me.’

‘I won’t–’ Tristan started, instantly knowing that was the wrong thing. ‘I promise. But I’m going to need you to promise the same thing.’

Hancock balked a little, incredulous, then, seemingly realizing something, he laughed. 

‘I promise, love,’ he said, taking Tristan’s hand in his and placing it on his own knee. 

They sat there for a while, looking out over the deceptively calm and glittering sea, enjoying the fact that for once the winds were blowing right and brushed away all the foul odors of the Commonwealth with briny air. 

Thoughts and the last couple of days settling in his mind a little, the touch of Hancock’s fingers on his hand started to send waves through Tristan. He didn’t know if that was something there was time, or situation, for right now. Christ, Hancock had just killed his brother. A synth in the shape of the brother, and a brother he had mourned for a long time, sure, but still. _I don’t have a reference for normal anymore._

Hancock’s fingers tracing the tendons on Tristan’s hand got increasingly deliberate. Seemed Tristan might not be alone in where his mind ended up, after all. If nothing else, he at least _thought_ he could read Hancock fairly well by now. 

Keeping his hand where it was, Tristan started to look around them. He was quite familiar with the neighborhood – he never liked spending much time in Diamond City, but often had had business there. In spite, he had slept outside their precious Wall more often than not. Right now, he could spot at least two parts of apartment buildings he knew had decent enough corners with mattresses and sleeping bags, unless something had happened to them, which could of course absolutely be the case. 

Looking back at Hancock, he nodded towards the house where he had been most recently.

‘You wann–’

‘Yeah,’ Hancock interrupted, standing up. Tristan laughed, doing the same, before setting off with Hancock’s hand in his. 

//

It became very obvious, the level of build-up that had been put aside, as soon as they had closed the door behind them. Kissing was like rolling around in static. Both of them stopped, often, breathily laughing, shaking their heads, needing a break from everything. After a while of that, Tristan banged his head softly against the door he was pressed up against, chuckling. 

‘Can we just… get… get the first wave of this over with before ahm… going again?’ he said, trying to still his shaking hands by harshly grabbing Hancock’s shirt. 

Hancock moved up closer to Tristan again, after having distanced himself to calm down. The heat of his body was like being pressed against a radiator, heat washing over Tristan in waves. 

‘You’re obviously capable of more coherent thought than me,’ he said close to Tristan’s lips, ending it on another hard, desperate kiss. 

Quickly, he got his cock out of his pants, nodding for Tristan to do the same. He complied, a little clumsily. Then he laughed, remembering something.

‘Hm?’ Hancock said, while wrapping his hand around both himself and Tristan. 

Tristan gasped before being able to reply, pressing his damp forehead to Hancock’s. 

‘Just…’ he breathed in beat to Hancock’s increasingly faster movements. ‘Flashback to what seems like a very long time ago.’ He dug his fingers into Hancock’s hair, nails against his scalp, causing the ghoul to lean further into him, biting down softly on his neck. 

‘Fuck,’ the ghoul growled against Tristan’s skin. Tristan was right there with him, cresting over suddenly, unprepared; a long, surprised moan escaping him as both he and Hancock spilled out over the ghoul’s hand. 

A violent shiver ran though Hancock, causing him to press against Tristan again. He laughed softly in Tristan’s ear at it, still slowly stroking them both. Tristan felt as if his legs would give out any moment, and how coming only left him half-hard, still mind-numbingly turned on. However, this release had done its job – he didn’t feel as if he was breathing down his own neck chasing it. 

Hancock hummed against Tristan’s hair and, not giving a shit how messy his hand was, grabbed Tristan’s wrist and led him off to two thin mattresses that were laying on the floor. They were the only things in this room that wasn’t dust and rusted tin cans. 

With a surprised yelp, Tristan was thrown down on the mattresses, landing a little painfully on his ass, catching himself on his hands behind him. Another memory flashed in his mind. He looked up to catch Hancock pulling the shirt over his head, his cock still hanging half-stiff above the lining of his pants. The view caused Tristan to twitch right back to attention again. 

‘So,’ Hancock said, fully in control of his taut, scarred body, slowly sitting down on his knees in front of Tristan’s disheveled self. Tristan let out a little shivering breath at the sight. 

‘I think I can trust you by now, am I right?’ the ghoul said, eyes dark under the ridge of his brow, a close-lipped smile on his lips. 

Tristan nodded, practically panting, and trying to stop, but it only ended up with him doing it through his nose instead. 

‘Ain’t much for the fancy, all-out roleplay, so you tell me to stop, I stop. You tell me to wait, I wait. If you for some reason have your mouth full of something else…’ He smirked a little less viciously. ‘You just tap me, or the floor, five times with a hand or foot. Sound good?’ 

“Good” seemed terribly inadequate to Tristan. 

‘Perfect,’ he croaked out at Hancock. 

‘Fantastic,’ Hancock rumbled deep in his chest, harshly pulling his relatively newly acquired American flag he used as a belt from his pants. ‘Get yourself out of those,’ he said, nodding towards Tristan’s pants. 

Tristan obeyed, hands _mostly_ working as he wanted them to. As soon as he had managed, Hancock was on top of him, securing his wrists together with the flag. Tristan instantly felt his fingers get tingly. He exhaled at the sensation, closing his eyes, before quickly flashing them open again as Hancock’s dick was pressed into his mouth.

He felt his throat instantly contract in reflex, making Hancock hiss in response, seemingly enjoying the sensation. The ghoul grabbed onto Tristan’s hair, angling his head to manage to get further down his throat. Tristan felt spit run down the sides of his cheek; he forced his mouth as much open as he could to help Hancock in, his tongue stretched out to safeguard against his bottom teeth. Despite that, he felt Hancock brush against his upper teeth, the ridges of his cock much harder than a human’s. Tristan moaned, a spontaneous raw sound, before his air flow was momentarily blocked. 

Hancock stayed a little on the safe side, but Tristan didn’t mind. He realized he wasn’t really looking for that close-to-unconsciousness an experience. The momentary dizziness was more than enough; he wanted to stay here, enjoy every touch, every nail dragged across his skin, every bite. 

Having gone down far into Tristan’s throat a few times, Hancock pulled out entirely, shaking his head with a smile a little, breaking the harshness of his previous action. This wasn’t a game; they were still here; they were still them. Hancock slid back across Tristan’s body, leaning down to be face to face with him. 

‘You, uh… got a plan for how I’m supposed to last here, sweetheart?’ he muttered before kissing Tristan deeply. Tristan laughed a little through the kiss. Hancock grunted. ‘Well, guess _I_ do, actually,’ he said. 

Tristan’s legs were bent, his feet on the ground, and Hancock leaned back against them now, scratching the underside of his chin, just studying Tristan’s exposed, heaving body for a while. He was pinning Tristan’s hard-on underneath him, making sure to sit in a way that was not entirely comfortable for the man. 

‘Actual pain, right?’ Hancock said eventually. 

Tristan swallowed. He didn't want Hancock to feel forced to do something he didn’t want. He frowned. Trust in both directions, right?

‘Only if you’re comfortable with it,’ he said, trying to calm himself down a little, but the ideas the question had sent running through his head were making it very difficult. 

‘Oh,’ Hancock laughed. ‘I am.’ 

The slap was _hard_. Tristan couldn’t remember getting a slap that hard ever. His ear started ringing, his entire face hurt. A thick globule of precum shot out of him instantly. As soon as he got his breath back, he moaned with every exhale, unable not to. He heard a short, affirmative grunt from Hancock. 

The backhand came down probably as hard, but Tristan was already adjusting to it – in a good way; in a hungry, needy way. He kept his eyes closed, wanting the unknown timing as much has the pain.

‘Again,’ he shot out through his breaths, knowing it was probably not needed, but just begging itself got him off. 

He heard Hancock scoff. ‘You can do better than that.’

‘Pleas–’

The slap broke the word in two, turning it into a loud groan. Tristan’s cock recoiled from the first smart of the pain but twitched back stiff in the aftershock of it. 

Roughly, Hancock flipped Tristan over. It was still hard to believe how strong the ghoul was with that lanky, emaciated body. One of those strong hands then went to keep Tristan’s head pressed down into the mattress underneath him, the other one pulling his hips up so that he was on his knees. His tied-together hands were splayed out over his head.

The hand on his head disappeared, and suddenly both of Hancock’s hands were pulling at the sides of his ass, his breath between the cheeks, tongue painfully lightly licking. Tristan pressed his face further down into the mattress, squishing his entire face to escape the ticklish sensation. Hancock’s hands held his hips fast, easily keeping him from pulling away. 

‘Fuck…. fuck,’ Tristan started whispering into the fabric underneath him, shivering at the edge of Hancock’s tongue before it suddenly went into him, deep. He almost screamed down into the mattress. 

Every exhale was a whimper from Tristan as Hancock’s tongue went in and out of him, slowly, harshly. One of his rough hands let go of the side of his hips and found one of Tristan’s nipples, brushing over it before twisting. Tristan’s vision blacked out for a fraction of a second at the two sensations. He shivered so hard, Hancock had to lean back from him. Tristan could hear him chuckling. 

‘Fine,’ the ghoul mumbled, raising up on his knees. Tristan hoped, imagined, what would come next, and he almost laughed at how badly he wanted it. Hancock’s hands went back to hold Tristan’s hips, and the wet, warm head of his cock met Tristan’s ass, resting at the opening, teasingly pressing against it. 

Tristan tried to push back, but Hancock’s hands didn’t allow it. Until they did. Carefully, the ghoul pressed past the initial resistance, and fully past it, he went all the way in, only to pull it out, at once, again. The whole series of actions left Tristan completely breathless, then causing him to scream out as Hancock went back in, balls-deep, just as Tristan got his breath back. The scream derailed into a breathy mumble of curses. 

The ghoul rocked back and forth, harshly, painfully, for a while, reaching forward to press Tristan’s head down again. Tristan’s neck hurt from the angle, his ass hurt from the thrusting, his knees burrowed into the floorboards. Precum was dribbling from him in a steady stream. 

Hancock pulled out fully, softening the grip on Tristan’s head, before letting go entirely. Then, he turned Tristan over on his back again. He fell back, many points of pain disappearing at once, adrenaline pulsating through his joints. Hancock was leaning over him, eyes locked at Tristan’s face, lips half-parted, blonde hair hanging around his rough face. 

‘Fucking hell you’re beautiful,’ Tristan breathed, causing a very surprised face to break through Hancock’s stare. It turned into an honest, soft chuckle. 

The ghoul reached up to untie Tristan’s hands, and blood painfully came back to them. As Tristan tried to cope with that sensation, Hancock bent down to kiss him, while managing to slide down on Tristan’s cock, only his precum there as lube. It didn’t seem to deter the ghoul at all. Tristan moaned through the kiss, and Hancock soon sat up a little, breathing through his nose at the mild pain, burying his what few nails he had left in Tristan’s chest. 

Sitting still a little while, eyes closed, slowly rocking himself into a more comfortable position, Hancock soon found a rhythm on top of Tristan. Tristan was sure he was staring. He was watching Hancock, holding his thighs with his hands, trying not to simply come from what he was seeing alone. Hancock was unsure why Tristan wanted to be with him? Tristan was quite sure that sentiment was, and would always be, his own. 

With a soft groan, Hancock leaned down over Tristan again, meeting him in a kiss. Tristan reached up to nestle his fingers in the ghoul’s hair, keeping his face close to his. The ghoul shifted his weight, letting Tristan know it was his turn to move. 

Grabbing hold of the bony sides of Hancock’s hips, Tristan placed his feet firmer against the floor, and grinded up into Hancock. A soft, long groan fell out of the ghoul, and he placed his forehead against Tristan’s. Tristan was so close, and having Hancock’s face right in front of him, his harsh breath into his mouth, was not helping keeping anything at bay. He picked up his pace a little and felt how his every attempt at not coming was soon going to be completely futile. 

‘I’m–’ Surprisingly to Tristan, Hancock was the one to say it. The ghoul’s hands were placed firmly each side of Tristan’s head and his entire body was shivering in Tristan’s grasp. The ghoul didn’t have to say any more – Tristan sped up, careful to aim for the spot which seemed to cause the most spasms through the ghoul’s body as he did so. He could tell both of them were trying to keep it at bay for as long as possible, but it was still only about half a minute before they both came, fingers hard around each other, mouths close, time meaning nothing for a while. 

It took a long while to come down from it. By the time thoughts seemed alright with being formed again in Tristan’s head, his feet were cold from the night air around them – one body part not currently being heated by Hancock’s radioactive warmth. 

‘Didn’t even know I could do that without hands before you,’ Hancock suddenly muttered into Tristan’s hair which his nose was buried deep in. 

Tristan chuckled softly. ‘A very inappropriate “look ma, no hands,” just so you know.’

Hancock sat up slowly, replying with a chuckle of his own. The stickiness connecting the two of them made a noise as their bodies separated. Hancock made a face at it, reaching for the bag that was closest – Tristan’s – and started to look for something to clean up with. 

‘Well, I’m lucky you’re the only family I need then,’ Hancock said casually. Then, he frowned with a smile down into the bag where his hands were buried. 

‘Really?’ he said with laugh as he pulled the old, foul, blood-stained American flag out of the bag. He gave Tristan a very skeptical look, though still smiling. Tristan felt his entire face flush, not really sure why. 

‘I didn’t know if you… It’s… I… Wait, what am I defending myself against here?’ Tristan said, throwing his hands out where he lay. 

Hancock shook his head, lighting a cigarette from a packet he had also found in his rummaging through the bag. He gave it to Tristan after taking a drag on it. Once again, he leaned back against Tristan’s bent legs, while using the old flag to wipe both himself and Tristan off, with the help of some nearly undrinkable, radiated water. 

‘So, where’s this vacation taking us?’ Hancock said, as he accepted the cigarette Tristan handed back. ‘I’m guessing that’s a concept you’re more familiar with than I am.’

Tristan chuckled. ‘But you _have_ heard of it?’

‘Well, as you know, most ghouls with their head still screwed on right are from your time. And most are _really fucking whiny_ about it. That vacation thing was something that ghoul you had such bad conscience over went on about. The one you sent to Sanctuary.’

‘Ah,’ Tristan said. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t wished he had sent that particular survivor of the apocalypse to a settlement he frequented less. ‘Well, I don’t know. My gut says north. Because it just seems that the farther south you go, the worse shit gets. But maybe that’s just because I had to take _several_ trips into the glowing sea.’

‘I think you’re right about that. North it is.’ Hancock snapped his fingers and gave Tristan a lazy finger gun. Dragging deep on the cigarette again, he peered down at Tristan with a small smile. 

‘I know you’ve probably figured this out already, but,’ the ghoul said, giving the cigarette back once again. He leaned forward a bit, carefully putting a bit of Tristan’s long stray hair behind his ear. The motion was very soft, and his fingers landed on Tristan’s cheek. It was so obviously trying to convey meaning – and succeeding – that Tristan dropped the cigarette, hoping it landed on something wet that also was not the remnants of a bottle of vodka.

‘I love you, sunshine.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to everyone who has read this fic - I was thinking it would take a year, but I managed in ten months I think. Something like that C:
> 
> If you enjoyed something in particular, or just want to say hey hello, please let me know! I love comments (I also fully respect lurkers, as I am one myself mostly). 
> 
> I am going to move on to writing a Morrowind fic after this, so if the Elder Scrolls is your thing, feel free to stick around.
> 
> Thanks for the support and all that here in the actual apocalypse <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using a journal-writing mod when playing F4 and thought it'd be a fun format to write the main events in - don't know how well it works, but it /is/ fun to write!


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